Hattie’s brother died
by his own hands,
she reads the menu,
says order the 50/50,
half of this and half of that,
and we use our fingers
to scoop Ethiopian wat
in soft injera sponges,
come for the open
mic, says Hattie,
it’s tomorrow night.
Hattie is a painter
of the old wall kind,
shaman of the fallen,
she peels off
the burned-out
boards, gives the dying
one more story,
day after day
splattered
in paint, patient
like Baltimore, like
slow jazz, sweet
as honey wine.
