Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

I am still waiting for the lion

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

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

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

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

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

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

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

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

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

Every so often, they add a tattoo
in honor of some long-forgotten love.

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house