November 2025

First, the shirt—
my canvas—this black T
I grip, tug up
over my head, and lay
square on the autumn grass,
smooth the ripples out
as best as possible,
while the blades
give beneath my palm.

Now the sack of sugar.
I like this braided thread
stitched along
the seam, the sound it makes
when I tear the bag
open, the whisper of sugar…

Someday you’ll think of me, Rama, as you wander, detached.

Holding a posture, he sits quite still,
 just like in the hymns.

 Rama roams, free of attachment.

I should have known he’d go off with the yoga crowd,
 leaving me in no-man’s-land.

Someday he’ll remember.

Coming or going, he doesn’t show up.
 Who can call a yogi their…

I caught her on reruns—Nichelle Nichols
from the original Star Trek series. She was
Black like me. Dark as me. Cosmic in her
mini dress, black boots and hoop earrings.
Not a maid, and not Julia—Diahann Carroll
was too much like my mother, grounded
by pain. I wanted to be astonishing as a
cosmos, not ordinary matter. That dark
energy…