Only together holding hands in silence can I see what a field has doneto my mother, aunts, and uncles.
outside the viewer,black outside a mention of orishas and speech about freeing
Wine between cacti and carnivorous flytraps,our bodies syncing to the DJ’s bad decisions,I can’t stop getting turned on
leaves a race behind takes on the music pop its relation to capital
In the dream my mother pours a gallon of milk over my head because her boyfriend held my hand under the table.
Universal Studios of riot interspersed with whites holdingguns and carryingpeople away.
Bile-colored flutes survive along bog rock,red-veined with a fine fuzz: canebrake pitchers hooded against the good rain.
The sound from some other kind of space or craft and foot set in a downtown, US shotsinto windows
I see visions in my head of Heaven
I see what I’m pretty sure is Heaven
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The fields of Rolesville belong to my kinfolk, dead and alive.
