GRACE ST.

On the 12th floor, down the hall

and to the right is Sunday. 

Gospel music and the smell 

of your mama’s jollof rice 

leak underneath closed doors, 

seeping into the four walls of

your room. You keep a window 

cracked open, thinking it stinks. 

I like it better when it’s shut. 

Our limbs tangle like the kinks do

at the nappiest part of my head, 

as your bed swallows us. You swim 

in the pinkest parts of my sea 

as I drown in sheets. When you leave, 

I still arch my back taking the weight 

of you missing your father and brother 

off of your shoulders. I swallow drops of

pain to ease your mind. I kiss and lick 

wounds you reopen as an excuse 

to not do better for yourself, or for me. 

My body is tired of being a grave 

cracked open by your insecurities. 

I am slipping through your fingers

like the pink durag I got you 

last Christmas. I’ve forgotten

I have a bed to lie in, myself

to nurture. But before I head

down the hall, and make a left, 

I say goodbye to the white walls 

and the cracks in the corners 

of your room, that only some 

queen elisabeth can soothe.

I tuck the sweater you let me borrow 

into bed, and give a kiss goodnight 

to the scuffed concord 11s waiting 

for me by the door. And I tell them all, 

I’ll miss them next Sunday.