Dear Hip, you who made me, snug socket,
master of the pivot, pea in a pod, bat hanging in its bone cave.
Through sinuous turns you made me sinuous, hip.
Cross-legged child to woman with legs.
Dancer taking on hip hop kids, having clacked
Round moguls of ski slopes. The turn.
What would be crux. Lap maker, taker. Open
open to flights of love, supple translucence,
tasty weightless all supple flesh. Open-legged
to deep creation, crowning heads of my babies.
Wandering poet, shooting from the hip.
Bones with their gelatinous lip get chewed out.
I said, surgeon, let me still shoot from the hip!
And welcome the newcomer, welcome.