I remember my sister’s last hoorah.She joined all the black people I’m tired of losing,All the dead from parts of Florida, Ferguson,Brooklyn, Charleston, Cleveland, Chicago,Baltimore, wherever the names alive areLike the names in graves. I am someoneWith a good memory & better imagination.

The man was high yellowIn public, afraid of himself, pretending his musicWas material when in fact, it was the opposite:Like a breath that comes so quickly you knowYou’re breathing ether: either atmosphericAnd anonymous as the air against a window,Or indefinite & mute as a curtain of wind.

Probably, ghosts are allergic to us. Our uproarious Breathing & ruckus. Our eruptions, our disregard For dust.

My hunch is that Sylvia Plath was not Especially fun company. A drama queen, thin-skinned, And skittery, she thought her poems were ordinary.

Are you not the color of this country's current threat Advisory?

I live a life That burns a hole through life, that leaves a scar for life, That makes me weep for another life. Define life.

SometimesIs a good answer to any existential question.