Sweet loom, old friend of an old woman / you are an ancestor she prays to

O, ancient / wonder, rose of unsullied joy, I sing / to the majesty of your sun-loved face / —your color so pure, petal fine as wing, / leaf’s thin veins a natural puzzle of lace.

I would LOVE to imagine
being alive in five
years but I have these bones u know?

An erasure poem of "Age Ain't Nothing But a Number" by Aaliyah

He says: I want it to smell / like the real thing. // The real thing / is a landscape // of work and death–– / the names of our ancestors // slack in our mouths, / just the art of loving // your family line enough / to reproduce it.

I am a child of wayward fruit / trying to touch a violence— / its bruised shape, a mirror / of my own dark face & hers.