give up fantasy and fluke , this world follows cycles and rules
They too know all too well that some cracks were built just for us to fall through. We live in a world that tries to steal spirits each day; they steal ours by taking us away.
Stone piled on stone I finish my meal.
In this early sunrise I see shadows where a cairn of rocks
used to stack in the direction of eastern light.
The woman at the Salvation Army who sorts and prices is crying a little.
She seems surprised to be crying. “It’s been eighty years and I still miss
her.”
When black, men drown. They spend their whole lifetimes
justifying the gall of springing the trap, the inconvenience
of slouched denim, of coupling beyond romance or aim.
All the while, the rising murk edges toward their chins.
Hurriedly, someone crafts another scientific tome, a giddy
exploration of the curious dysfunction identifying black
men first as possible, then as necessary. Elegant equations
succumb to a river that blurs quotient and theory, rendering
them unreadable, and the overwhelm easily disappears
the men, their wiry heads glistening, then gulped. All that’s
left is the fathers’ last wisdom, soaked wreckage on silver:
Girl, that water ain’t nothing but wet. I’m gon’ be alright.
holding her breath as long as she
dared, letting his presence seep
out only when she could no longer
bear, leaving him to be a vapor ghost
I did all your laundry. I don’t know why
I thought this love could be pure. It’s enough
This is
why I've come, he'd say, but all at once
that stubborn dog of a heart stopped
speaking and drew a giant moustache
high up in the spheres. You can see it
if you dare listen to their music.
I grow dirty while bathing in bottled water.
My bed comforter is a wet parking lot,
I wrap myself up in.