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

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

Ma wrings
a wet world
of colors

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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

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 have observed, the theorist
I am

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

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

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

my friends’ fathers are
dropping
I mean dying
like flies

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

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

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.