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

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

I myself should never have been born

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…

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

I buy too much, for someone of my stature.
could pawn a skinny metaphor to purchase a plump skin.
its reputed in our lineage— to daydream a life that shreds our pockets.

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

Mostly he ate what was put on his plate
snuck coffee grounds or dirt for a snack
Once a zipper Unzipped

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

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

Ghosts for hire, whispers in her mouth,
cysts to feel, the symmetry of a gift.

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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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

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

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

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