Should have found a job by now; should have slept in the night;
should have boiled old coffee before noon.

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

In my universe, my arm carries a heart and flowers,
my back a misguided quote

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

You let the yellow glow
from eye sockets. The building up the street
is burning faster and faster.

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.

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

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

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

I imagined a cascade of slow death for all / that mattered…

If my life was the size of my arm, I would stretch it out for you.

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

Gravel-scatted hell &
we were blessed to be able
to hold on for even a heartbeat

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

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