forgive me, i’m remembering again, the day
we gathered on a rooftop in one short loose circle
around a fire pit & a long story from a friend
of a friend. how a wayward paw locked him out
of his car on a mountain on a day like today,
puffs of air pluming from our winter mouths.
how he might’ve abandoned his vehicle to the wild
exhaust of nature but never his dog. i remember again,
how your air, cancerous & unrepentant, billowed out
staccato, one-two, in a laugh. how i could not see you
& then, like good angle & luck & shadow, i could.
how all the glass in the neighborhood shattered.
how the early wind shifted & rose to meet you.
how throat & swallow i became at the work
the muscles the corners of your eyes devoted
to you. the fine hairs of your life. the winter crack
in your bottom lip. how your body wrought in my favor,
bent in triumphant song, the unruly organ of my chest
sustained only one low long note. when it breaks –
the window, the dog, the friend, forgive me, this I never learned –
you tilt your head towards me & what sudden sound crawls
from your mouth is church. a stack of good books. a hard minister
of lost in my own body. forgive me my puerility & faulty memory.
it’s just i remember i was so full of light
that i was the new & ready conditions of a rooftop garden.
how you watered me. how you kept me
nourished & in bloom.
About the author
is a queer Black poet living in Long Beach, CA. Her poetry has appeared in Black Napkin Press, Fight Evil With Poetry, and Hooligan Mag, among others. You can find her at home, trying desperately to keep her plants alive.