my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

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

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

I am still waiting for the lion

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

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

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

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

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

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…

Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?

We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…