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

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.

I have observed, the theorist
I am

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?

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

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

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

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

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

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

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

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

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