Empty vessels make the most sound, I think, as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.
I count my homes— those of my scattered youth the sanctuary of our young family the intermittent rest stops of apartments and vacations.
It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows? Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.
Ma wrings a wet world of colors
love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt
anger, like you can sink teeth into, candy apple
Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.
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.
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
Winter sat like a wolf on the horizon.
my friends’ fathers are dropping I mean dying like flies
my father holds his favorite drink
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.
Live the rest of your life from one worst case to another.
It recommended soft porn, as gentle prodding and petting parent to parent might calm and soothe the kid.
I have observed, the theorist I am
you know that baby swallows make silver ripples in wild rivers to court reeds?
how does an afternoon turn on its axis?
my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight, and there are already way too many fragments in this house