Poetry

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. 

I followed the shimmer far down a road I still haven’t found 
the ending to.

I got to Heaven and I won’t believe it

’Cause nobody in Heaven’s gonna make 

A fool of me

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Only together holding hands in silence can I see what a field has done
to 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 holding
guns and carrying
people away.