Marlanda Dekine: Thresh & Hold

I don’t fully understand Dekine’s poems—even a simple one like “Paris, 2019”:

I lost control
following cigarette processionals, in and out,
of a freedom-spatting
mausoleum head. I love

James Baldwin.

There are entire worlds
in his words. My heart became
a jade toad, croaking fire. I leapt—
followed e smoke.

I can’t figure out “e.” In any rate, I read through the collection once.