It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt

He has stories that I am not in
anymore. It’s healed this way.

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

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

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

I myself should never have been born

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

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

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

the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

The sin is existing.

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.