she emerged in high school
born of blonde cornrows,
and mini shorts,
a boy’s comment you look like Beyonce
my half smile and a giggle at the comparison.
an imaginary concert in my room
singing “Bills, Bills, Bills” to made-up men.
she was born of body rolls and hip jerks
a persona furthered by more blonde hair
but this time the braids were skinnier
long and loose at the ends, and men in Atlanta
yelled Hey! Beyonce can I get your number?!
she was born because I wanted to sing
ever since I was three years old and saw
Michael Jackson sliding across a dance floor
and thought he was a girl.
and Beyonce, well she was my generation’s singer
so I sang her songs
she continued through college
I was dangerously in love with a short football player
who had a girlfriend.
got more blonde braids, but this time tinged with orange
met a volatile man from the bronx
hummed soldier as he roamed the streets.
she weaves in and out of my life now
no blonde hair to entice her presence.
but when I’m alone in my living room
or my car,
when i feel a man trying to do me wrong,
a microphone appears
and she’s there.