I find the court bundles, / find the judge who / smeared my face with war paint, / fingered my veins for Pakistani valves like / my blood could be distributing homemade bombs.

a sophomore from art class. could he paint. i kept / his scraps of craft paper / and stray eyelashes in a jewelry box my grandma bought / in italy.

On a day I am walking with my cane / in Starbucks / the lady behind me inquires, / from her wheelchair, / if I am recently disabled.

A swirl of trash – / I’m dodging it. / A gust of nasty wind. / Now you’re about to be / even more remote.

the world ran out of people / but we’re still here / we do normal things / take the subway home to / each other hold hands / when no one’s looking

I heard in a Black boy town / there was a pool filled / with red / and the white people

The sky was a color / she loved most — / the holy blue / before Eid mornings.

Day 1: I woke and opened my eyes to a quiet morning, trying to feel if it was the end of an era.