The two of us toast to a man we both love, to whatever degree, clink our glasses and laugh…
I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…
My grandmother asked, “Does it feel like being widowed?”
If America is Babylon / and you are an exile / newly arrived among pagans / Catholic, ‘Ngolan, Black, woman / you already know how to pray
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.
We found in his suitcase T-shirts, his siddur, gifts he bought for his grandchildren…
I would always rather be happy than dignified. Rather held than held in awe.
You let the yellow glow from eye sockets. The building up the street is burning faster and faster.
I am not a guide for every traveler of loss.
I am still waiting for the lion
Ma wrings a wet world of colors
Even from this distance I could go out the door it would bang shut and crumble
Her brown eyes, how a fig considers itself.
Gravel-scatted hell & we were blessed to be able to hold on for even a heartbeat
Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time
I have an axe with hearts gashed
we drove on through the blue seal of morning as the turbines turned and winked out their hearts
I suffer visions and many indignities while looking for the Lobster
it’s touch-and-go with me and weddings
Lights on the dashboard spell out “You still can’t kiss me”