Poetry

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

                                     leaves a race behind
                 takes on the music                                      pop
                 its relation                                                    to capital

In the dream my mother pours
a gallon of milk over my head
because her boyfriend held my hand
under the table.

Vendors approaching men with
women, holding out a solo rose, long-stemmed

Early mystery,
out of what century

The lithograph hangs
immaculate, while the chest
beneath it gleams.

Quartal voicings, the alcohols. 
Swallows in a martini sky, jigsawed