My fifteen dozen eggs––compulsive purchase of inherited scarcity––are delivered in blue cardboard honeycomb.

Do you get jealous? / Here, I walk / sweatless in the sunlight / and no one tries / to fry an egg on the sidewalk.

I am quick to enter when you’re gone, freeze at your alarm. I gave up knocking long ago.

on this shore, there is a body with an arm cut. / i fumble with the forsythia, that nudge of spring

what power is in my hands / my hands be power, be power, / my power is in what hands, my what / is power in whose hands.

In 1973 a black boy / was murdered on / my Mother’s birthday

Everything I need to hear / the slug churns out / in its stream of glitter

Sirens wail all night on these streets / blanketed / (as in, humiliated) / by day’s hurried departure.

and vomit all / my happy-hour alcohol / inside that earwaxed / manhole