Concerning Cousin Twyla

Her front door has no screen.

She sells her moon to men.

When jittery in mittens

Whom of Harriet Tubman’s ilk,

Such a glory over everything

Assured her, mint of breath:

I am your parakeet.

Lift your head

Lofty among the bricks

Of the Springhill Projects.

Her pain is checkered.

Her pain is not strange.

Which of her gossiping aunts

Sought permission to unravel?

Raised a village mountainous

As Septima Poinsette Clark?

Each braid furthers us.

Look over here—

Toward a second-hand heart.

Breeze on my back

I’m unfit to sling the hammer.