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

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

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

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

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

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

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.

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…

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

and apples, mackintosh mostly, but any kind left in The Pub
at the Assisted Living Place

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

Any still figure at mid-late evening, when the long shadows make even crumbs appear arranged like furniture.

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

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

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

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