I have observed, the theorist
I am

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

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

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

Long after midnight, we’re talking about our first time

Empty vessels
make the most sound, I think,
as you rip the fairy lights off the handrail.

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

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

Every so often, they add a tattoo
in honor of some long-forgotten love.

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

I am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.

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

and then her eyes fully opened — blazed through with strands of mud

I suffer visions and many indignities
while looking for the Lobster

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