This is 45. Four and one half decades black woman flesh, unburdened by cloth or silence — no currency for safe passage.
This is a something plucked bare. Love song strung ’round bone, ground between teeth, held tight in the hand ’til the fingers cramp and bleed.
This is danger. Woolly hair and sagged breasts with the will to trespass.
This is where we enter. When we square up. What do you owe? Pay what you owe.