i only want to
be there to kiss you
as you want to be kissed
when you need to be kissed
where i want to kiss you
cause it’s my house
and i plan to live in it
i really need to hug you
when i want to hug you
as you like to hug me
does this sound like a silly poem
i mean it’s my house
i want to fry pork chops
and bake sweet potatoes
and call them yams
cause i run the kitchen
and i can stand the heat
i spent all winter in
carpet stores gathering
patches so i could make
a quilt
does this really sound
like a silly poem
i meant i want to keep you
warm
and my windows might be dirty
but it’s my house
and if i can’t see out sometimes
they can’t see in either
english isn’t a good language
to express emotion through
mostly i imagine because people
try to speak english instead
of trying to speak through it
i don’t know maybe it is
a silly poem
i’m saying it’s my house
and i’ll make fudge and call
it love and touch my lips
to the chocolate warmth
and smile at old men and call
that revolution cause what’s real
is really real
and i still like men in tight
pants cause everybody has some
thing to give and more
important needs something to take
and this is my house and you make me
happy
so this is your poem
—nikki giovanni, my house.
