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

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

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

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.

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

I myself should never have been born

We stop doing dishes while
a mile unwinds
from the tree outside.

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

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

I am still waiting for the lion

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

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

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

I count my homes—
those of my scattered youth
the sanctuary of our young family
the intermittent rest stops
of apartments and vacations.

Winter sat like a wolf
on the horizon.

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

you quit wearing pants
loaf around your yard
in hole-nipped panties

You’ve spent a lifetime training
for this.