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

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

I tap at the alphabet while a single deer
taps at the dirt beyond the brush
on the far side of the tree line.

It is the 70s. 1970s? 2570s? Who knows?
Audre and I have a penthouse in New York.

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

The sin is existing.

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

There is so little left of the tomato plants.

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

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

I myself should never have been born

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

I have an axe
with hearts gashed

how does an afternoon turn
on its axis?

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

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

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

a folksome, gruesome opera
of gauze and malcontent.

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.