by Guérin Asante

There goes the neighborhood, the interstate,
a lip of concrete crushed by fallen limbs,
a thing not quite a star in orbit around another
every other hour, the skid of rubber wheels,
colliding metal drowned out by a thunderstorm,
strange how you always would arrive in rain,
leaves like skin on the bottom of your shoes.
This is how it continues: every room we enter
is a pass of clouds, thrown over darkened porches,
a thin gold necklace dropped in a patch of grass
taking on water, the way memory grazes just
beyond the atmosphere: next year will be
infrared, anniversaries ultraviolet with gifts.
To spite everything, we lean into its grip, knowing
all black oaks are red oaks and yet none of us
survive with our desires undermined by smoke.

Guérin Asante is a poet, essayist, photographer, visual artist, and musician based ​in Atlanta, Georgia. ​His work has appeared in ALOCASIA, Minor Literature[s], and others. He is on Twitter/X @blkchimera, ​BlueSky @blkchimera.bsky.social, and ​Instagram @blkchmra.