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

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

the strands of your hair on the bathroom tiles aren’t sketching defeat. that’s you spitting disease in the face with another day you’ve woken up to.

I have observed, the theorist
I am

we drove on through
the blue seal of morning as the turbines
turned and winked out their hearts

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

I am still waiting for the lion

love is a soggy tea stain on a grocery receipt

I would always rather be happy than
dignified. Rather held than held
in awe.

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

Now that the Israeli has left, it falls
on me to make the salad.

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

I want to roll in this moment until I become its vocabulary
until I smell like the bones
until I am its echo…

Try not to see your own predicament in every fucking thing.

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

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 am not a guide
for every traveler
of loss.