August 27, 2018

"Hourglass" is featured in The Southeast Review Vol. 36.2.

Subscribe here to receive your copy in the Fall with the release of 36.2!





A father exists, but not 

much. How


much is enough?          

Woodchuckers chuck


& that’s a sufficient riddle.

There is a limit. Even when the action 


is your name— to father

is a verb. Predictable


that I ask about love. Lovelace

my Grandfather’s last


name, the first

of many branches on burned


bark. I stand at the Black Warrior

Dam & am alert at the lack


of alarm. I could dip my toe in the town’s

drinking water. I walk


more than I drive, but once

when I was high I curved into the right turn


of a casual street & thought

the police car’s siren alit


a dead black boy laying over two solid

parallel yellow lines, & maybe it was a trip


trapped in the blue note of a trombone.

Dear God,


I hope so, or

I’m sliding every egg from my uterus. Give me


baron when the dead boys from the screen appear dead



Last week a wind

wandered into my car on the same street. It was             


lost and non-threatening. I drove 

it home, though we nearly passed


its season.        

It’s Christmas


& Grandpa’s empty

chair cracks my mother in half. I rub


her face, he holds

my hand—sand


returning to sand.



Nabila Lovelace is a first-generation Queens native, her people hail from Trinidad & Nigeria. She is the author of Sons of Achilles (YesYes Books, 2018), her debut book of poetry. You can currently find her kicking it in Tuscaloosa.



Photo: A. H. Jerriod Avant

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