Hip Hop Cricket - Believer Magazine
header-image

Hip Hop Cricket

Rita Dove
Facebook icon Share via Facebook Twitter icon Share via Twitter
This ’hood’s vast
and I’m its chief
sentinel, a natural 
born horn. 
I’m a clarion 
nation, the itch 
in heaven’s 
evening clothes. 


Where I’m from
ain’t no “my bad”—


I am bad: That’s
truth. So pony 
up, falsettoed 
crotch-grabbers, you
whistling wannabes, 
and listen to 
what’s real: I don’t 
have to touch it 


to know that it’s there.





This poem is supported in part by the National Endowment for the Arts.

More Reads
Poetry

My List of True Facts

Erika Meitner
Poetry

Wunderlich

Mark Wunderlich
Poetry

The Spring Cricket’s Discourse on Critics

Rita Dove
More