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

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

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

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.

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

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

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

The sin is existing.

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

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

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

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

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…

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