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

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

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

You said it was okay to blame
what goes wrong on the planet

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

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

you know that
baby swallows make silver ripples
in wild rivers to court reeds?

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

my father holds
his favorite drink

Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.

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…

Listen to me: I know
the winter gloom in
mid-summer…

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

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.