I heard we got the city doing front flips // where every father/mayor/rapper jump ship // and I
heard they all wanted us to tumble down, anyway // to let our streets fall over into themselves //
inside the city line and through the alleys // in a flood of cement // and that crazy kid’s croons //
I heard he used to sing about us in autotune // how our rowhomes would jazz the boulevard into a
keyboard // how our grandparents and their grandparents knew joy like we know it // that is,
almost // that is, like someone always had their hands covering the sun over it // // that is, like it’s
all there is

Praise the glowing yellow sign
in the distance.
Praise how slow it comes.
Praise how fast it goes.
Praise be to going.
Praise be upon the dozens of us
that are all going somewhere
But to nowhere near the same somewhere.

Why don’t I just say how much I own and how much I do not? It’s a tilling of the soil over my head to make beautiful what others see. So my box of marigolds sits nicely next to theirs. Meanwhile I’m wondering where the marigolds’ roots are. Tapping and pulling tight together from each of body’s corners until body is thin as a rubber band rolled around itself, double strand of DNA.

the moon begins her waiting for us at 4 pm
I acknowledge, say hello moon!
I sacralize, hello Chandrama! Purnima!
her names the same as the aunties who grasp my face with both of their hands
no ma, don’t cry