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

Part of being a good sad person
is always painting the shadows
in the right direction and knowing
what sorrow to art with.

Lights on the dashboard spell out
“You still can’t kiss me”

I like to think I’m also sprung,
released from the furnace knocks,
done with the heavy meat stews
and salty soups.

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

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

I am still waiting for the lion

you quit wearing pants
loaf around your yard
in hole-nipped panties

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

Even from this distance I could go out
the door it would bang shut and crumble

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

my love is a glass shard, a knife made of madness and moonlight,
and there are already way too many fragments in this house

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