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

the man is stayed bent over the canvas
of my sofa. the man is me the man is him
self and I bring down the whip…

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

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.

The sin is existing.

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt

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.

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

It recommended
soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent
to parent might calm and soothe the kid.

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

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

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

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

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.