Poetry

The “Lyric I” tied its sheets together and flew the coop, confessed itself off the balcony.

All the rain in the world

is falling, making
a door you can’t open.

I’m lonely and the only Black person inside the paid Cézanne 

exhibit today.

It isn’t the trees but the space

between the trees,

We made a dance of all the ways

we’d hurt our bodies.

The puppeteer darted in and had his black cloth strung waist-high,
pole to pole across the Métro car, before the doors even closed.
We were standing to the front of the carriage but a bit behind him
and could see only his right side, where a...

I told myself five hundred would be enough

to begin to make a plan.