A Grandfather’s Monologue


If you’re not careful, too much pomelo will give you the runs, but the leaves of the tree make the sweetest tea. The day before you want to drink, cut leaves from the tree. Dry them on the roof, under sun . . .

When He Left


I remember when he left: I was watching TV—Batman and Robin—in black and white. It was 1967, Brooklyn, New York. I was sitting on the rug between the TV and the couch. My little sister, Meshach, was in my lap, and my newborn baby brother, Abednego, in his bassinet, was beside me . . .


Bead Spring cleaning My room in Scarborough. Object: jade bracelet, rice-like bead linked to rice-like bead linked to rice-like bead linked to . . .  Mine. In a shoebox of memories, In a zippered embroidered pouch, A gift my mom left for me . . .



A tree’s dark leaves explode to black-wing squadrons in the sky like an airburst lifting all the heavy fruit away. More and more I’m seeing hydras in the green world. I know alchemy in the pot and it’s not gold, it’s green and grey matter— smoke curled fiddlehead in the fire of a synapse . . .

Dark Nights


I hold this splendid dark night in my hand Inward gratefully it’s a lovely night Dark nights like great hideaways Dark nights like a safe haven Dark nights like a safe time to take a flight Dark nights like a sacrament in my hand  . . .