Poetry

There’s a brother who sits over on North University. 
Looks like James Baldwin in a do-rag. Sings.
Is he homeless? People give him money

Like a flock of dispossessed 
in a city of converts, we found our way 
to the Shamrock where the bikers 
congregated to play pool. 

What happened to the city that made us 
promises, promises we had the luxury 
to believe or not?
Night caved its streets, 

Why I thought I needed to rent a third-floor attic.
Why I thought one mattress on the floor, a desk, a vanity

Cutting down Chambers St. 

my pinky toenail comes clean off.

Another little ghost 

What if each time
you caused pain
a small, round stone
was put in your pocket
pebbles for inducing
self-doubt

That one smelled 
like a Bradford pear 
you said. 

St. Stephen’s Day: home unsettled, 
a rupture, and here the ruched 
branch has turned itself outward,

its soft, bright innards held up 
along the path. At first, a golden

Women used to wean their babies
By painting their breasts black.
Hurricane clouds are black.
The Earth is weaning us.