Is Woken Up At 6am On Saturday Because I “Left All Them Damn Dishes in The Sink”

and "The Poem in Which We All Go Back to Where We Came From"


Is Woken Up At 6am On Saturday Because I
“Left All Them Damn Dishes in The Sink”

it was one fork

what do you call a fork with one prong missing—
divorce
triangular dinner table
food meant for 4 served to 3

a fork: a way to dig simultaneous holes

my father: a fork

The Porch gossip:
she has more space in the bed
she throws herself into work
what do you call the space between the prongs of a fork?
she buys plastic
she talks to the tv
she moves into an apartment
she tries quinoa
she runs                  tofrom
more plastic platesforks                  space

when a plastic fork breaks
you throw it away

disposable—just like a man

I haven’t seen my mother’s face
in a while        too much empty in the house
and everything is so heavy these days
including her head and her hands

what do you call the space a man leaves behind?

I clean red bean juice off the fork in the sink

—is it freedom?

 

The Poem in Which We All Go Back to
Where We Came From

& it’s a rapid unbirth. & we’re back in our mothers
who are back in their mothers back in theirs & who,

depending on what we believe, climb trees or are Eve. &
regardless, we’re naked & unlearn to hide & to shame

& unspeak our first words. & mine, I believe, was mama,
as would be my last before our tongues, if they

continued to exist, would drown in womb & water which
are both constants. if we ungrow, I feel,

the first to go would be speech & we would find
ourselves alone in the darkness of an unnamed place

we unknow & could never miss & could never explain why
it’s not where we’re from, it can’t be, it is un

recognizable & we,                   we’re back,                  but we’re not us,
are we,

someone’s speaking a language we used to know.
they’re not saying anything at all.



Because I dare not be in awe

My chiropractor tells me, your sternum is shining, meaning that the small bones
in my chest are rotating, overlapping, and moving away from one another—


Age

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