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

you quit wearing pants
loaf around your yard
in hole-nipped panties

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

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

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

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…

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

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

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

I am still waiting for the lion

Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.

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

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

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

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.