february in harlem

1.
Every finger crisping,
crackling in the frost’s bite,
unhanding bricks and uncradling chain links
as the sun sidles behind the tenement.

The ivy loosens her grip
but only just enough
so the underbellies of each vein
can take a deep breath.

2.
tit tit tit tit tit tit
Little finch or sparrowbaby
hipping down the sidewalk,
gliding every hop or so
on the iced lemon cake.
Each time the basketball pounds
the cracked concrete,
the finchbaby tits.

3.
He sucked my second finger
mhmm mm mm
like he could make milk
come out under my nail.

I know yo maaaaayn
don’t work his tongue like this!
mhmm mm hm
I thought of the three bears.

The taste of my fingerprint
like curry or bay leaves.
His breath like tea steam
as I rocked in my seat.

How hot my nutmeg porridge
the morning he came knocking—
he knew the porridge was steam.
Did he know the oats were stale?

hm hm hm hm
Did he know them oats were stale?
Only one bowl in that pot
and not for him neither.

a case for mortality

I wonder if your flight attendants have New York accents or British ones.
I wonder if your plane is coming or going.
Maybe the flight attendants are neither
from Manhattan or Manchester.
And maybe they change how they speak
depending on their destination.
Welcome aboard, yall! when they head South
or Please turn off your mobiles when they fly to England.

They aren’t real you know.
They aren’t real until you can follow them home
and hear them curse at their dogs for
pissing on the couch again.
They are as real as the angels I prayed
to fly alongside your plane tonight.
Never back. Never forth.
Never just sometimes, but always.
Which is just as good as never.

I don’t know if I ever told you this,
but we think my dog has heartworm.
He hasn't seen a vet since he was a puppy.
He’s basically a wild dog now.
It’s strange he’s become almost saintly
just because I know he’s dying.
Sometimes I see him in the kitchen window
running through the pine trees,
chasing birds and armadillos.
There is a fight in him that is vindicated.
He is real. He’s living,
because he’s going.

In the next two weeks,
visions of you,
spiked tea in porcelain cups,
a busty British woman,
and her plush, red couch
will infiltrate my thoughts.
But that image is so much like your plane, you see,
so much like your flight attendants,
because it isn’t real.
My anxiety knows no beginning.
My conclusion jumping does not come and go.
It has always been.

There was a time when we were not.
Then a time when we were.
And now as we are dying, together, it seems
we are more alive than angels.
We are more precious than an Ibizan sunrise
or a champagne cork in the Mediterranean.
We are out of breath in the thicket of the pine trees,
pumping not just blood but worms, too.
It’s life, can’t you see?
Unless we die, love,
we never really were.
So let us die.