which I wonder if she ended up wanting to take back
as surely as the first statement has been taken out of context
by every ’90s Black stand-up act you could think of,

and nothing could come easier.

Even my mama beating the black off me
would only make me blacker: no diggity,

Deer asleep on the side of the road. No, deer

dead there as always, preserved in the Book

of Symbols. Deer with its flies and uncanny

arrows in its sides like compass needles, or

And what is it to be made
from the good stuff but to count

your layers spread out before anyone
who would be willing enough

“i got fat bitch pussy, cause fat bitches got the warmest pussies. that's what i got.” -cardi b.

i pray to prevent our bed becoming a resting place,
i heave—sweat, pant, run so she finds me attractive.

I say hunger and mean your hands bitten to boneseed,

bandaged with bedsheet and the night while two states over,

a mouth—ready soil—says your name. Next June’s lover

he blows proud at stadiums
on gamedays both home and away.

alongside piccolo and glockenspiel
he marches into the script noun

for Giovanni Melton (2003-2017), murdered by his father, who didn’t want a gay son

Cruel tumulus fate,
all for sips of spring’s first honey
Each misstep mottles cotton
O cleft birdbath,

I don’t currently want a man, just a boat;

so what I want is a man with a boat,

with the man as vessel.

Maybe I want something easy

at the checkout line. at the seven-eleven.

under the scanner’s rabbit eye. you

call me forth to swallow my core.

you ugly man. you language lecher.

When I was approached to be the guest poetry editor for TriQuarterly’s 160th issue focusing on Black voices, I didn’t hesitate to say, “yes,” because I was, and am always excited to curate a wonderful reading experience, and, of course Black voices, Black experiences, Black stories need to be told.

Erica Garner Will Not Stop Marching — ABC News

No matter who we lost, the cab drivers are stiff
in anti-protest. the corrupt streets, like
jails, are in season & exasperated tax dollars do
their thing

for Victor Steen

at 15 miles per hour / 1,000 pounds
is a wagon of 166 bricks running a stoplight
is a donkey kicking your entire body at once
is a fully stacked bench press free falling into an esophagus

~after Hortense J. Spillers & Cheryl I. Harris

The love worship of whiteness is the root of all evil, & you,
conspiratorial spiritati who never rue crimes you should
atone, always ride me breathless with guilt for offenses

The first thing I thought this morning was mayonnaise would be a good name for a dog.

I could scream Mayonnaise! Mayonnaise, Mayonnaise! into the dark of my backyard.

After Birmingham, non-violence
wasn’t holding down its side of the scale.
I guess to learn not to hate
you have to learn to hate, first.

to the small fellow in the future who has not known
how to begin the past, begin. you will put a name
to a face only to see it walk away, anyway.

I hadn’t seen a sunflower in real life
until 7th grade when Ms. Garcia took our class
to the Botanical Garden though we all wanted to go to the Bronx Zoo