Enter the poems of Lucille Clifton, where she uses few words but somehow always chooses the right one so that you can't imagine each verse with any other selection. Streetlights bloom and dust wrinkles and hair cries and hair is pain and all clay is kin and kin. Clifton writes with a language of kinship that colors every subject she depicts and every voice she assumes with universality. While you can certainly hear echoes of the Good Woman poems + memoir in Ocean Vuong and what I've read of Kiese Laymon's memoir, Heavy (ur professor is brilliant, Julia,) I would put this more somber, worldly collection in dialogue with Giovanni, Sanchez, Adichie, and Shire.
the poem at the end of the world
is the poem the little girl breathes
into her pillow the one
she cannot tell the one
there is no one to hear this poem
is a political poem is a war poem is a
universal poem but is not about
these things this poem
is about one human heart this poem
is the poem at the end of the world