My Phone Autocorrects “Nigga” to “Night”

My nights

play cousin to

their mothers’ favorite

kettles. My nights won’t consume

their reflections so they pour milk

in their coffee. My nights never rest

so they sing their shadows to sleep. Sometimes

they don’t remember any words. My nights have frogs

stuck in their throats, no light soul, every bit of pain, my nights

all Louis Armstrong minus a trumpet, and my nights play chicken

with the train. My nights both shoe and polish. Both Sambo and Bruce

Leroy. We all little pretty medallions on our grandmothers’ nightstands. My nights

are mistaken for other nights that bear no resemblance. I saw the sinew of the oldest night

in the neighborhood on the floor, his saint pendant

missing. All the small, down-feathered nights

scatter from the groan of pig sirens. My nights don’t know their history. My nights are pecans without

the trees that grow them. My nights instruct all the people in their head to weep. My nights hate the firefly

cutting their darkness. My night, did you see them? They just walked right past us and didn’t even speak. My nights are ordinary,

wear ruffled socks, have the best belts. My nights don’t always go to church but my nights are lambs worthy of the morning. My nights are revised constitutions, crypt keepers, my nights are a congregation

of alligators on a rumpus bayou. My nights hiss into themselves. No one hears. Their blood

rolls its eyes. My nights chew gum and sunflower seeds. My nights eat pork. My nights

get the itis and slur their speech. My nights protest protests. The government watches. My nights live in Brazil

Botswana the Congo Cuba the D.R. France Grenada Greece Honduras Ireland Liberia Lithuania Nigeria Venezuela

Zimbabwe. My nights live in America to remind you of me. Some

people think my nights are better with their eyes closed but

my nights have beautiful corneas. My nights wash clothes

that don’t belong to them and won’t look their bosses

in the eye. My nights know necessity. My nights

oblige. When my nights die, I wash them on

my kitchen table. After my nights are

washed, I throw away the table.

My nights have names. My

nights smell of sage.

My nights smell

of the muddy

rivers they

will never

swim in

again.