(for my sisters)

I still don’t know how he knew

I was running. My mouth was open,

or those boys were barking that loud;

not that I hadn’t been chased

by dogs. There’s a moment when

you can’t tell from which angle

it’s coming, and the air is a red drum,

and the trees lean away from you,

and the ground is wet.     Lonnie drove

truck nights, and grew strawberries

in our backyard, which were small,

but sweet. You could taste his hands

in the dirt, which the mouth learns

to read as green and sweet. My mother

made him liver and onions; we ate fish

Fridays and I wasn’t allowed milk. He’s why

I like my eggs runny. I still don’t understand

anything about engines. I can’t remember

why those boys were after me. Maybe

it makes sense why a Rottweiler

would break a fence.      Lonnie stood

with his shotgun out front. Sometimes

he wouldn’t come home, or he’d walk

into the house with his shirt bloody.

When we left, my mother didn’t want

money. Not that we would have gone,

but that other woman didn’t even invite us

to the funeral. Man, I bet Yvette’s children

have children. Lord knows what’s happened

to Chrissy now that she’s too old to dance.

You and your friend stood 

on the corner of the liquor store

as I left Champa Garden, 

takeout in hand, on the phone 

with Ashley who said, 

That was your tough voice.

I never heard your tough voice before. 

I gave you boys a quick nod, 

walked E 21st past dark houses. 

Before I could reach the lights 

on Park, you criss-crossed 

your hands around me,

like a friend and I’d hoped 

that you were Seng, 

the boy I’d kissed on First Friday 

in October. He paid for my lunch 

at that restaurant, split the leftovers. 

But that was a long time ago 

and we hadn’t spoken since, 

so I dropped to my knees 

to loosen myself from your grip, 

my back to the ground, I kicked 

and screamed but nobody 

in the neighborhood heard me, 

only Ashley on the other line, 

in Birmingham, where they say 

How are you? to strangers 

not what I said in my tough voice

but what I last texted Seng, 

no response. You didn’t get on top, 

you hovered. My elbows banged 

the sidewalk. I threw 

the takeout at you and saw 

your face. Young. More scared 

of me than I was of you. 

Hands on my ankles, I thought 

you’d take me or rape me. 

Instead you acted like a man 

who slipped out of my bed

and promised to call: 

You said nothing. 

Not even what you wanted.

I lie here thinking of you:—

the stain of love
is upon the world!
Yellow, yellow, yellow
it eats into the leaves,
smears with saffron
the horned branches that lean
heavily
against a smooth purple sky!
There is no light
only a honey-thick stain
that drips from leaf to leaf
and limb to limb
spoiling the colors
of the whole world—

you far off there under
the wine-red selvage of the west!

Down in a green and shady bed
A modest violet grew;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
As if to hide from view.

And yet it was a lovely flower,
Its colors bright and fair;
It might have graced a rosy bower,
Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed;
And there diffused a sweet perfume,
Within the silent shade.

Then let me to the valley go,
This pretty flower to see;
That I may also learn to grow
In sweet humility.