May 2025

The man that I love rinses our recyclables.

The first man to love me
bears the face of  his father,

whom he loved, who loved
his country, who left it,

bereft of all but anger.

I pray toward Mecca in a shirt
sewn by someone who wasn’t paid,

a woman, the hands of many
women with whom I might share

a last name, an adjacent complexion,
a greater…

Is this the last time I’ll admire the guys
in their neon-yellow slickers, guiding us
to our parking spots before we head up
 two flights to the passenger deck,
to the cafeteria where a man in a black derby
and black suspenders nods and smiles
 as he nibbles popcorn? In honor of this maybe
last trip to San Juan Island, the last time
I hear…

Mixed greens. Purple onions. Banana
Peppers. Tomatoes. Avocados. Mayonnaise. Pepper. Sourdough.
A stranger knows

Your mother’s order, has seen her
From the other side of the glass where she is always
Right and a number one

Priority. Someone asked
How she was doing, how they could help her.
Chained in whose dungeon

Were you—whose good boy…