Poetry

The sound from some other kind of space or 
craft and foot           set in a downtown, US           shots
into windows

I see visions        in my head of Heaven 

I see what I’m pretty sure is Heaven 

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The fields of Rolesville belong to my kinfolk, dead and alive. 

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

Wine between cacti and carnivorous flytraps,
our bodies syncing to the DJ’s bad decisions,
I can’t stop getting turned on