As soon as the lesson is learned
it’s a rock littering the side of the road
next to the Watch for Falling Rock sign

I can feel it coming\the last one\the lungs tip it off\coughing\pushing that last bit of\atmosphere up up and away

She washed the bar of soap\with my saliva as I spit\black and green in the sink\and thought,\“This tastes like shit!”

I wait for the goddess of mercy
the one who perceives\the sounds of the world\which means she might hear me

Oh, sky that certain clear cold blue, we go/back. We are washing dishes here/suds between our fingers. Indoor. But fear/places us in the car. Plays the announcers/voice crumbling like block towers. Fall.

I/wander off to/a carnival where/madmen think/away strange/and unimaginable/things, like becoming/small as a grain/of salt, disappearing,/almost invisible.

Are you stepping onto the rungs? Clenching/cold mettle in your hands?/Remember this. The last step/is hardest, as if you didn’t know.

This is our Serbia. This
Is our Syria. This is our neo-
Nazi superiority. This
Is our Selma, our Watts, our Boston.

You’ve been winning the chalking and charcoal wars
against acne—so you hope your face is inert and in the clear
when Miz Beanson names CeeCee Irons as your lab partner.

Burgundy, the colour of cherries
we got at the Farmer’s market in Germany-
We paid for strawberries; the cherries came free.
They tasted sweeter.