I have observed, the theorist
I am

You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.

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

The storm passes without snow.
The car waits loyally in the back lot.

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

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

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

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

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

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

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

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

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