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

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

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…

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

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.

You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

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.

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

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

The sin is existing.

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

I have observed, the theorist
I am

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

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

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.