Yes I’m thinking of a number between my nephew and Rikers. No, preeclampsia won’t woo my womb this year. I pressed my favorite ear plumblue with a flatiron. Nobody monitors skin’s phoenixing; it could’ve taken months for all I know of beauty. No I don’t remember that blood: suffix “ique” or “isha”? God no, I would’ve always kissed my mother’s mouth directly. My square acrylics glossed seventh birthday fire and lucky. I won second at the state forensics meet. Yes divorce (hurts to say) is cinematic perm-slicing. I will never take direction from daft blackwomen again. For my mother’s dementia, my teeth are too near distance. If she threw dyke with the jab, yes, surely some god-shaped sanction from the stovetop would help simmer me out. No, Arby’s takeout at daddy’s condo made our greed a papery song. Yes full custody first hatches as sexist jest, knock-knock joke of a cyclical waitress, and all this blaming has me missing my ex-girl, eyebrows threaded to Andes mountains. Outside her exhibit, a cry wakes concrete with clear motive. No I could’ve apologized? Overall I just want to know what being born of a colonialist means. Harriet used good lakes to camouflage as nothing. Some Igbos have nine iterations of a final name. Yes I’m thinking of a red salt voyage between my chromatin and Okoye. Yes my sisters and I wonder if in any given McMillan we’d constitute the torched Cadillac. Yeah, same fear that insinuates no true blackman ends himself. There’s so tiny of us, really–13% is flunking. Yes I’m a Mechanism of God.      I'm so ecstatic to be black.        Magnolias jet as my womb, jet as all February. I love being possible. Still, possibility matters. Ann Arbor broccoli treetops, a soft row of little m’s against me. My law school boyfriends do what most men in captivity do: build calf muscle, facial hair, seesawing Christianity. 12 of them love up on me. All crimes men do to end inside a woman again. Yes, it’s always homecoming “…when and where I enter.”