If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

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

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

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

this is what I want you to to see:
leaves falling because it is too late for them not to

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

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

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

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

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

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

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

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

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.