Gate of Pain 

Come sleep by me,
Dad says, delirious
as the hurricane taps,
then knocks, impatient—
I enter, a tall shadow
in his room, bringing him
his cup of water.
I am 20 now. I’m fine, I say.
The power will be out for days,
the branches strewn across the roads,
trees fallen into houses. Cancer
changed you. I chase a lone dog
into the street, the car almost killing
us both. The outage reminds you
of Nigeria, all you want to do
is go back: Men sinking
in and out of flashlights.
A woman roaming, asking 
if I’ve seen a little boy.

Gate of Life

Quiet, says the officer
walking me to the office, 

                                                   after I flashed
                                                   my knife in school—

the footsteps scuffing,
shuffling—rain-like. 

                                                            All of it moving                                       
                    because I am moving. 

                                                   After the flood, 
                                                   a quiet rose 

                                                                             like a shirt
                                                                             off a body of land.