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Once when I walked into a roommy eyes would seek out the one or two black facesfor contact or reassurance or a signI was not alonenow walking into rooms full of black facesthat would destroy me for any differencewhere shall…
This is a simple poem.For the mothers sisters daughtersgirls I have never beenfor the women who clean the Staten Island Ferryfor the sleek witches who burnme at midnightin effigybecause I eat at their tablesand sleep with their ghosts. These stones…
We forgot to water the plantain shootswhen our houses were full of borrowed meatand our stomachs with the gift of strangerswho laugh now as they pass usbecause our land is barrenthe farms are chokedwith stunted rows of strawand with our…
My children play with skullsfor their classroomsare guarded by warlockswho scream at the walls collapsinginto paper toiletsplump witchs mouth ancient cursesin an untaught tonguetest children upon their meaningsassign gradesin a holocaustrangingfrom fury down through contempt. My children play with skullsat…
The difference between poetry and rhetoricis being ready to killyourselfinstead of your children. I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot woundsand a dead child dragging his shattered blackface off the edge of my sleepblood from his punctured cheeks…
The bitter tears are stonebut one quick breathremembers loveand the long years you’ve lainbride to the thundersister to fallen rainwho ate a bitter fruitto dance with death. We have no right to lovenow you are deadwho could not hold you…
Sun shines so brightly on the hillthat I can see each daypatches of snow that fell this springbefore you went away. And now that summer’s near at handbelow the meadow springsbehind the trees at dawnlighta songless lark now sings.
If you come as softlyas wind within the treesyou may hear what I hearsee what sorrow sees. If you come as lightlyas the threading dewI shall take you gladlynor ask more of you. You may sit beside mesilent as a…
Paper is neither kind nor cruelmerely white in its neutralityI have for reality nowthe brown bar of my armmoving in broken rhythmacross this dead place. All the poems I have ever writtenare historical reviews of some now-absorbed countrya small judgementhawking…
The land of flowers is dustyand covered with jewels.Alan writes that Ceylonis heavy with topaz and rubiesand the stink of rotting lotus. He will returnwith opals and moonstonesaround his neckand a crippled monkey named Buddhain his back pocket. When he…