Once in Kansas, I stood in a field and watched
the stars on the horizon revolve around my ankles.
People are always moving, even those standing still
because the world keeps changing around them, changing them.
Anyone surprised by this, at this point, can only be a willful denier of what Black people have said—and continue to say—about the broken culture of policing in America.
How many summers
did that red and white sundress last?
It was my mother’s before it was mine
By tradition, poets have the authority to write epitaphs. It goes with their famous license, their claiming the verbal right to confront death in whatever context death presents itself while using poetry’s concision to arrive at a just, incisive summary.
Heavenly Father
Who looks down on us
With all our confusions
Engine like a Singer sewing machine, where have you
not carried me—to dance class, grocery shopping,
into the heart of darkness and back again?
…here under the apple tree
I loved and watched and pruned
With gnarled hands
In the long, long years
Certainly, policing cannot be the solution for the safety of Black women, who must navigate the line between white supremacist violence and its toxic violent byproducts that overwhelm the Black community.
This morning three trees lay felled,
the roots exposed like hacked bones
in opened graves.
The number of Americans who are vegans or vegetarians has doubled in recent years.
But history leaps from the bushes, grabs your throat.
Your sisters’ screams explode in your chest.
Thatch is burning, sacks slit, lentils spilled.
Although Pittsburgh is home to a number of major museums and art galleries, the region’s streets often tempt residents to create their own art.
A C-list talent agent walks through the world all but invisible… until he enters a pay-to-play audition room.
Look at me. Even on the darkest night, I could show you where to find enough light to make your way back home.