1st Place Winner of the poetry contest: Flood Gates With Fangs - Khalisa Williams

 Momma say, “Cross your legs in church, girl.”
and I'm not sure what she thought would fly out--
a bee, a psalm, a moan, wet-fanged beast running
 
to where we lost ourselves, where we first saw
the light, come where the dew drops of mercy
                                                 shine bright, shine all around us,
 
a liquid call that says, I'm alive here, when I'm gaped-
open & splayed like a fish-platter. I’m sure that whatever will rush
will be a flood, a stampede, whatever Noah escaped from--
that
that’s what we’ve got between our legs.
They boarded that ark to get away from our wet jaws,
They afraid of our flood-beast—our water be so scary. Close it up
and follow the elephants into the boat like
good little girls.
 
I notice church women wear cloths over their short skirts
to not to show their private
parts to the pastor, and I wonder why women are always plugging
our holes. Why we hiding the gush like men be wolves
without control?
 
What if at night my vagina grew shark fangs and that’s why
the mothers said to shut our feral flow–
they worried about what my foaming, rabid lips would do
when the preacher comes down from the pulpit.