Three Poems

Morning Routine

When he clasps your hand

It is both a greeting

And a recognition of the

Work needing to be done

Hands still covered in

Soot of the day before

Grime under nail

Sweat-turning lifelines

Into rivers of Styx

As he pulls you ever so slightly

Further into work

Towards the machine

Where you stand

For 10 hours, again

So that the next time

He clasps your hand

It’s

As

If

You

Never

Left

---

Whatcha Gonna Do?

Fuck

Here they come

Sirens ring closer

Chasing away crows on

Telephone wires

Until they slow down

On my street

On my block

In my hood

To ask me

Which way the boy ran

And I point

In the opposite direction

---

Mental Gymnastics

I held my breath again

Today, for the call

My mom had died

During surgery

To pass the time

I painted a portrait

Of her twisted body

In my head. I used

Earth and oil create

The purple and pink needed

To capture the bouquet

Of wilting flowers, I placed

On the windowsill in her

Room. When they wheeled her

Back in, she asked, hoarsely

If anyone had changed the water