The day we met, you told me
you were leaving.
It was snowing:
    You warned me you’d be gone
by June,
but I confidently cocked a smile
and called the waiter to refill
your wine.
Three months was a lifetime.

That night, we slipped on an icy sidewalk
and shared our first kiss
on the pavement.
I picked snowflakes out of your hair,
and you looped your thumb
through my belt to
draw me in.

A few days later,
winter becomes June
and we are fanning ourselves
on your front porch,
fingers sticky with summer sweat
as bees buzz around our ankles.
Only a few days have passed,
and yet it’s been

                                A life.

Only a few days have passed,
and yet
I’m watching you tape boxes,
I’m helping you load them into your car,
and I can’t let go of
your hand.
An eternity passes in a single second,
and our last kiss
ends before it begins.

I want to say, Don’t go.
    I always knew that you’d have to,
but I didn’t think
today would come.

As you drive away, I tip my face to the sky,
    and I pray for snow.

Melted metal in shattered spines,
hands up, shoot fast,
black man, black spot, black asphalt
Why don’t you write about
Black Things?

Black Things,
like beloved ghosts
and next-time fires
I, Too, Sing America
and uncaged birds
Black Things
like resurrected slavery
and swing-low chariots
Black Things
like the motherland, Af-ri-ka

I
Bet
You
Do
Spoken
Word
So make your stories groan
like a slave ship:
make them sing low with pain.

White faces drinking up my black ink
promise to paste me front page
as long as I write about

Black Things.

Put a little soul into it.

Black Things.

Do it for the ancestors.

Black Things.

What about your people?

Yes, Massa,
with my Jim Crow grin,
Pass me dat dere pen
so I can write about—

Yene fikir.
My love.

When you say it, it feels like
                          I’m sorry.
It cuts like
                         Goodbye.
It sounds like
                         It’s not your fault.
                         The timing just wasn’t
                         right,
                         yene fikir.

I called you my girlfriend
until Addis Ababa called you home.
The day you told me,
you kissed the rain from my cheeks
and promised,
                         You’ll always be my love,
                         yene fikir.

I said, Ishi.
It means
                         Okay.
It felt like
                         I have nothing left
                         to give you.

I tried to call you
           yene
           yene
but my tongue couldn’t grasp
the sound.

You’ve forgotten how to cry.
You said, Who needs teardrops when
                you’ve got waterfalls?
                Who needs sadness when
                you’ve got sunshine?

Your smile was so forced
that it cracked
under its own weight.
I told you
that it was okay to let it crumble,
but you said,
                  Who needs all that heartbreak?

Last night, I watched you sleep.
The light slid over your parted lips
and pooled on your cheeks,
and you clutched my hand
like you were drowning.           You told me
to count your nightmares
by the tears beneath
your lashes.

Your breath
warmed and tickled
my ear.

You exhaled: cheap beer
and burnt out cigarettes,
a temporary high
that sent you crashing back down
at midnight.
               What do you see
               when your eyes close?
               Do you feel me holding you?
I found your heartbeat cowering
in the crevice of your collarbone
and counted
its wishes
against my fingertips;
I waded with you through the darkness.

When the sun rose,
it tangled you in sticky yellow sunshine
and dragged you back to earth.
You said, I’m so cold,
but sweat clung to your neck,
and when I asked you
why you were crying,
you just curled into my chest.

How can I protect you
from something
I can’t see?

Close your eyes.
I’ll climb into your dreams
and fight it off.

I don’t know how to watch you age:
Teach me.
Just yesterday,
we were six years old,
galloping around a broken sprinkler
that sprayed muddy water.
Today, your son bounces in my lap;
has anyone told you that
he has your laugh?

When did we grow up?
I don’t remember.
They tell me that it happened—
and yet
I’m still a child
who prays during thunderstorms.

Do you remember how fast we fled
when we smashed your mother’s vase?
We flew.
Ashes poured from that urn
like sand through an hourglass.

Teach me how to run like that again.

Today, when I look at you,
I see my own cheeks,
creased,
my own eyes,
tired
and dim with a future that happened all at once.
As you pass me a glass of lemonade,
I count the wrinkles around your knuckles
and force a laugh.
“One day, we’re going to look like our parents.”

You take your son’s hand
and wipe the dirt off his forehead.
And I know
before you say it:
“That day was yesterday.”