Poetry

Or was I the wrangled crag,
obsidi-flecked in my own volcano choke
as the hot pink thread whispered round my jags
and a young smudge yanked— […]

I am a statue built too close to a moving bus. Fluorescent
lights blur the bedroom. Here, our wings beat time with the
tune on the radio. […]

When the dog, which is not your dog, runs out of the house, go after her.
When your yearlong lover tells you a year doesn’t mean that much to her, […]

Baldwin sang The Fire Next Time
in 1963 & we are living in the wake
of his impossible love. […]

my friend Shamala at the window, the egg-colored wall, Saj in the shower, my mom in the kitchen with the three glass bowls, never used, the shallow sink, the old woman reads the magazine in the museum basement, hands shaking, fingers follow words, my callow sympathy, I am coming to be everything I hate […]

Lean back, and watch the almost father flounder:
he’s become an enormous pair of eyes, isn’t
holding his wife’s hand. Her hands relax across
her chest, bare belly a soft gong. Below her navel, […]