after Wanda Coleman

JuneWe die.

JuneSoon we die in March, April, May

JuneMother may I? Yes you may.

JuneMother, your back is turned. Ah, there’s your face.

JuneWe march.

JuneJanuaryArberyMarchTaylorMay

JuneAugustRememberOctoberDecember December

JuneWe march. Everyone is a world to someone.

JuneIf another person uses “knee on the neck” as a metaphor I will scream.

JuneI teach myself how to run. Run. Walk. Run. Walk.

JuneI pay quarterly taxes to the government of the United States of America.

JuneTwo friends miscarry. L’s father succumbs to pancreatic cancer. J’s mom is killed in a car crash.

JuneI turn off the news because I can turn the news off.

JuneI name the world. I name the time and its sands.

JuneAaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh

JuneA neighbor loses his wife and daughter in one week. I remember standing across from the daughter. I can see her face. Years from now, on an astonished

Juneday, her son will confuse memory for photograph.

JuneThe first snow.

JuneA world becomes a repetition, a cry.

JuneAmerica

JuneThis is your July freedom. This is your threshing floor.

JuneMy mouth is lion wide. I reread

JuneJordan: “My name is my own my own my own.” Lucille Clifton: “and the land is in ruins, / no magic, no anything.” Gwendolyn Brooks: “We are lost, must / Wizard a track through our own screaming weed.”

JuneWe jazz. We

JuneI bite my fist.

JuneI cast my pathetic, triumphant ballot.

JuneShucking corn, I find a worm.

JuneI look over my shoulder when I run. Walk. Lurk. Lurch.

JuneI pay quarterly taxes to the government of the United States of—If another person says “a few bad apples” I’ll— Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhh—my mouth is roaring with a human head.

JuneClifton: “the question for you is / what have you ever traveled toward / more than your own safety?”

JuneI

JuneI sing insufficiently.

JuneA word becomes incantation.

JuneOne of many graces.

June I haven’t ever cried.