IT'S YOUR MUG ANNIVERSARY ISSUE Venus Thrash   SHE GIVE ME SHE BOWL She give me she bowl .............sweet of she sugar She give me she bowl .............tang of she sauce She give me she bowl .............plump like she belly She give me she bowl .............to kiss to me mouth She give me she bowl .............root of she hunger She give me she bowl .............pulp of she flesh She give me she bowl .............silk of she petal She give me she bowl .............to kiss to me mouth She give me she bowl .............thick of she honey She give me she bowl .............bloom of she south She give me she bowl .............lust of she deep She give me she bowl .............to kiss to me mouth   ANGEL I am seven. I want to be an angel in the second grade Christmas pageant because I have never been an angel. Angels are hushed and still. Loud as bare feet on a mound of cotton. Fluttery as leaves on a breezeless night. I want to be an angel. I must not bat an eye. I must stop chasing boys in the hall. To be in the second grade Christmas pageant I must act like a lady. I have never acted like a lady. I have never been an angel. I steal my brothers’ cars and trucks. I pop off the heads of my dolls. Angels are hushed and still. I am loud and fluttery. I have demanded to be called Vince. I am only seven. I want the boys to wrestle me not run from me. I want to peck the cheeks of giggly little girls. I want to be in the second grade Christmas pageant. I want to be an angel because I have never been an angel. I tear from Auntie’s hand-sewn dresses. My hair sits in a ratty mess by midday after Mama made it so pretty for me— because Mama has said I am her angel. Daddy loves every loud-laughing, tree-climbing part of me. They made me too strong to be bound by pink ribbons and bows. I am seven. I want to be an angel. APPROVAL Loving women, their gracious curves, honeyed lips, and pungent scents is not enough. I want a man to see me not as one of the boys, but as one of the girls—to not be so ready with a high-five, a hard slap on the back, or a quick pat on the ass when I score two points in a pick-up game of basketball. I want to feel my full bosom against a muscled chest, be held by tender, skin-thick hands, kiss a stubbly face as I did when I was little, pouting my lips to Daddy’s scratchy moustache. I want a man to tell me, like Dad used to, I am loved.     ELEGY FOR THE LIVING I look at my environment and wonder where the fire went. What happened to everything we used to be? —Lauryn Hill A day of sobriety for Drunk Joe who hasn’t skipped the bottle since crawling back from ‘Nam in ‘73 A motor powered wheelchair for Q-Dawg who finally stopped thugging when his homeboy opened up a hole on his spine resembling pomegranate gushing with juice and seeds Enough self-love for Latasha, her two kids, plus one on the way to fill those empty nineteen years of her life already gone plus generations over A jump rope for little NaNa and her friends instead of that monster extension cord Self-control for NaNa’s Mama who skips rope all over NaNa’s behind when she mad at the world and don’t give a damn no more. Venus Thrash is a published poet and fiction writer. She is an adjunct Professor of English at the University of the District of Columbia.   Published in Volume 10:2, Spring 2009.   Read more by this author: Venus Thrash: Wartime Issue Venus Thrash