A random radical woman is lovable as she is.

She craves “I” hugs instead of “A” hugs.

The kind where she hugs you until you feel her pulse

but not long enough to become awkward.

She has a tender heart for jagged edges worn smooth

polished into good memories of bad decisions.

She loves random conversations that high dive

deep into the humanity of ones character

fearlessly raw with scars of warriors victory

or dark with the ashes of the charred Phoenix

She loves to reach deeply into social culture

tasting the air of festive debauchery or meditating wholly

Surfing the climatic waves of intense concentrations

Splashing musical colors over every participant

I know you are grieving. You are heartbroken.

Are you breathing? Are you praying by holy token*?

Have you inhaled the violent sky? Beat fists upon your breast?

That which turned your lover’s eye: disintegrated; dust to dust.

*Any gift of prayer is a token.

At the edge of my bed,

I sit next to my altar,

Head bowed to read the labels

I begin my prayer of good health

Body: To omeprazole, Atorvastatin, Effexor, naproxen, trazodone, prazosin.

I eat the blood from my hands

Offering up body parts

To the lowest bidder at the highest cost

Blood:

And here I stab myself with sugary revelation

I used to pep talk myself

That tomorrow will be another

Just a little pinch

Asks:

Shaking hands fearful heart

Panicked requests

Just every day without justice

We fight in the sewers and streets

Our blood runs on emergency room sheets

Save us! Redeem us! Grant us life!

But their god makes them blind

To badges of regrettable illness or injury

Umbilically attached to our wrists

Half a handcuff for only falling ill

A paper sign with handwritten letters OUT OF SERVICE tacked to your record

“I have not died. I am not dead. As long as you remember me and tell my stories, I will be immortal. I am one with you now. I am the energy you need to get through this. I am the power that warms the sun. I am the winds that blow through your hair. I am the very water that you drink. We are all moving together through this Universe, one journey at a time and I have not forgotten your love for me. You are my voice now, but I will speak though your acts of kindness and love, acceptance and encouragement. I have not died. I am not dead. I am now as the breath of God.”

Where once the grass is flooded green

now the colors changed the scene

the sky is gray the air is chill

the flowers no longer on my windowsill

Queen Anne’s Lace or dead daisies smiling

thistle spurned their purple beguiling.

The cornflowers nod their tired heads

getting ready for Winters bed

Goldenrod has turned to Green

to match the seasons changing scene

Fairy circles closing ranks

singing hymns of praise and thanks

Blessed am I to shiver the chill

As autumnal turns the spinning wheel

I sat on my porch watching the day pass.

Down the street, in a white picket yard,

anger forces an acrimonious rise in volume.

A part of me wanted to call the police to restore order

But my privilege allowed me to snapshot and assess.

Clearly they were having difficulty communicating,

But that doesn’t mean they deserve to die

because they want to feel heard. Temperature cooled

Like air conditioned souls validating the issues.

I hate that my racist thought got afraid first

Reason correcting my reaction. Guilt, shame, sorrow.

I breathe deeply the breath of their frustration blowing

Volcanos and whispers with wide gesticulations and relaxed stances

I want to be raw like that when I become angry

But I have an unreasonable amount of anxiety

That leaves my outrage in my back pocket, hidden from view.

I wish them peace as I retreat into my home.