Any Good Poem

"In my poem, says another, I can forget I am forgotten. Now I understand being misunderstood..."

"Tell yourself as it gets cold and gray falls from the air that you will go on..."

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world..."

"This is the moment my therapist would cross his legs, look into my eyes, and wait for me to reveal something."

"They don't teach the talking treatment anymore..."

"Here the body’s art conspires with destruction..."

"Who would be a turtle who could help it?"

"The season pivots and bends to the darkening north..."

"The headlines said Well-Loved American Foods Resisted Arrest, Failed to Comply, and Were Delicious While Black."

"I say Good Morning! and he studies me in my white coat, like skin lesion he has seen only once in a textbook."

"The national day had dawned."

"I am overtired, Of the great harvest I myself desired."

"...a falling man falling beside a falling apple could also be described as an apple and a man at rest..."

"I imagine an ossuary blooming in my gut, a stone well of tiny bones, ancestors tunneling through the cartilage, though of course I know this is impossible: ancestors are supposed to stay dead."

"...I swear to not be in a half-assed rush, wear helmet & ear guards, keep my gloves on for even a fast cut..."

Goes to the market Just to hear another voice: “Paper or plastic?”

"A single gem has throbbed in my chest my whole life, even though, even though this is my second heart..."

"One September morning, the day I started medical school, I placed a two-foot specimen in my sunny south window."

"Poetry arrived in search of me."

"That’s when I started dreaming I could be a doctor someday, that I could get away, prescribe myself a new life."

"But before offering it to us over steamed rice, even before his gods, he’d serve those who were not home..."

"We sit on a bench to find out how it will end..."

"While considering Celan's suicide, I think back to Virginia Woolf drowning herself..."

"So this is Nebraska. A Sunday afternoon; July. Driving along with your hand out squeezing the air, a meadowlark waiting on every post."

"The year I owned a motorcycle and split the air in southern Spain, and could smell the oranges in the orange groves as I passed them outside of Seville, I understood I'd been riding too long in cars..."

"My own dear love, he is all my world,—And I wish I’d never met him."

"I was talking on the phone, walking steadier, noticed the tap, and after, the tap-step, a light knock, a knock like someone’s at the door come to visit..."

"...the beauty still intoxicating, the spirit of the research like a child swimming for the first time in the sea, awed..."

"Remember? Remember wanting to play every minute, as if that was why we were born?"

"How free is our will if our fate is decided by our melanin. What is the meaning of Black lives when so many people don’t think we matter?"