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

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

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

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

I am still waiting for the lion

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

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

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

I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…

Even as the sun warms the concrete
the long nights’ sensual cold lingers in my clothes.

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.