I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray

and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”

Okay, picture this: We’re in an elevator. The elevator shuts down. It doesn’t matter where we’re going, only that we’re alone.

the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.

Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.

my father holds
his favorite drink

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.