Once, I fell asleep in a fire.

It’s no news that the first sons in Arinze’s kindred did not live past thirty-five.

No one shows you how to wear your blackness

No one gives you that armour

Chloe wants her water enclosed, straight.

They stop at James’ chair. Not a word is spoken. James rises. Follows them outside.

In my mind’s eye, Monday is indigo.

Even now, I can only love him when the candles have been pinched and our light and dark is hidden by the night. 

Is it because she isn’t the first? 

In addition to collecting neighborhood felines, I collect many forms of nostalgia and tokens of unearned sentimentality…

part threat, part dare.

He opened his eyes and gazed at us, assuring himself that we were listening, though none of us had missed a word.

Because learning flints

the sphere of ideals.

He looks away from me like a shy boy. I put my hand to his forehead. It is cold. He weeps and cries without making any sound. I want to cry too. I want to shout.

At twenty one, the confession created a spasm in my mother’s eye.

Rolling off my tongue, graceful like the currents of a spring freshet

December leaning into January

and the cold months that followed.

you looked skyward too

I kept having these dreams about you whose remains were everywhere

(Step into these shoes and you’ll be a different woman, the salesgirl had told me)

She paused again, her eyes closed and this time she fell asleep.