Poetry
His worn-out T-shirt, black as mourning, black / as countless deaths, surprises me
A wingspan so wide it soared beyond the sidewalk / like a small plane. I turned, I had to turn, find where it landed
Your left hand is a dead fish, your left leg a sunken anchor, your/
left eye a black mussel
I’ve given away the black Samsonite suitcase/
that for thirty-five years enfolded my suits/
like a wallet
Dey discovered it in dird grade / whenever we practiced counting / money, candy, or people / I kept saying dirty, dirty—
When I call my mother on Mothers Day/
I thank her again for making me, and for/
lamb chops, for smocked dresses,