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

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

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

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

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

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

The sin is existing.

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

Do not say anything anybody else has said ever. Things are not “bleached by sun.”

I don’t
know why
I’m in the garden
kneeling on dirt

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

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

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

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

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