Poetry

tidal networks of black people cross
                                                   the road 
a Walgreens and pizzeria we 
follow as they walk

I still don’t know if Jesus was the dog or Jesus

See Jesus        doesn’t make himself

Apparent like I might have thought he would’ve

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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

Primitive angiosperm, genus 
prior even to bees,

When the fledgling fell 
from its nest, by meager attempt,
by pinwheel descent,
and lay, unguarded,

Famously late, light reaches us
eons past its own extinction,

Vendors approaching men with
women, holding out a solo rose, long-stemmed