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

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…

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

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

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

I am still waiting for the lion

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

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

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.

I myself should never have been born

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.

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

my father holds
his favorite drink

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