Notches of grief

Brain cancer. 5 years old. 

Brain cancer. 27 years old. 

Suicide. 30 years old. 

Brain aneurysm. 27 years old. 

Car accident. 17 years old. 

Old age. 83 years old. 

Drive by shooting. 16 years old and 3 months pregnant.

Cancer. 35 years old. 

Cancer. 53 years old.

Drive by shooting. 19 years old. 

Sudden infant death syndrome. 4 months old.

Drive by shooting. 16 years old.

Your lives mean too much to be relegated to a list on a page

But your numbers consume so much of my heart and I fear I don’t have enough skin to ink your name

My life of white privilege and living in no fear will never be the same

Cancer. Suicide. Shooting.

All of these and more will be gone before I. 

Where does it end?

With you?

With me?

Between lines on pages and ink making its mark? 

With brush strokes and poems or song lyrics and rhythms? 

Where does it end?

A life is sacred. A life is precious. Without life there is no me. Nor a you. Without life there is no purpose. 

A familiar face unfamiliar to me in a



steel box

wrapped with embellishments too gaudy to be sentimental.

Your soul is gone.

Your life is gone.

Your nails too brittle.

Your eyes never to open.

Where does it end? Life is too precious to be gone too soon. 

The Other Woman

You saunter nearby

and I feel my soul quake,

your presence is electrifying.

I watch you as you sneak

a peek at me and your

chestnut brown eyes light

a fire deep within.

Your agile, strong, black hands

move so gracefully and

effortlessly with every motion.

I feel the desire rise up in me.

I want. I need.

Alone at last. Long waits.

Interruptions. Inconveniences.

Our bodies and souls need their fix.

You wrap your strong arms around me

and I come undone.

Everything falls away.

You lean down and passionately,

yet slowly, kiss me

as the nimble fingers of your soul

reach in to unbutton mine.

I am all yours.

You breathe me in.

I breathe you.

You are my life.

You are my awakening.

From a deep slumber I wake.

I am fully alert, aware, and

responsive to all you need.

Our passion is our sustenance.

We wait.

Waiting to be fed.

Waiting to feel alive.

With you, I am the other woman.

The woman society can’t,

or won’t, handle.