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

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

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

I am still waiting for the lion

I have observed, the theorist
I am

here is the sky in stop motion, flickering,
a still shot in monochrome

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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.

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

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

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

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

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

You are strange, my mother said, dwelling on the past.

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