In the Fire Afterlife,

the Great Chicago Fire of 1871,

the Great Boston Fire of 1872,

and the Great San Francisco Fire of 1906

crowds the chemical space

of My Great-Grandma’s Kitchen Fire of 1977.

Flames climbed her walls

like rats

before red teeth gnawed into her skin.

Shall we call this fire great

or a lesser label

that only collapsed one life?

When I clench my eyes shut

into a temporary death, I see

the ghosts of urban fires

extinguish my kin’s

grease-ignited inferno.

Transplanted

I stumble over sidewalk trash

in this neighborhood knot

I no longer want my body

to occupy. On Mosswood Park’s

green assertion, tent stakes

bury into soil

where unhoused hearts vibrate.

Is anyone listening?

A scoop of hours ago

when darkness triumphed

in our concrete kingdom,

I heard pop pop pop

on the privilege of my mattress.

Under a smear of Oakland sunlight,

I pick my bloody self up

and wonder: what if I transplanted my heart

into a fern-painted kitchen

where smiles get served

alongside a low-poverty rate

and strawberry ice cream.

Through the kitchen window

into the backyard, I see my constructed self

palm an appleseed

over buffalo grass.

Watch a sapling

burst through black soil

by the strength of solar kisses.

America’s Bullet

America took their bullet for a walk

where its metal frame

pressed a caliber width into brown skin

within a high-melanin neighborhood

outsiders stamp as one more ghetto.

America took their bullet for a jog

to shake off the residue

of last night’s murder.

A brown boy I knew

since he suckled from orphaned milk

got his dinner removed

after America took their bullet for a sprint

through playground screams

and past a store that hasn’t seen a fresh

apple skin. A brown body

lies unheard in an autopsy room.

America dances with their bullet

while brown humans sleep hungry

under a concrete sky.