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

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

my father holds
his favorite drink

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

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

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

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

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…