A Poet Died In Brooklyn

A poet died in Brooklyn today,
Her body found in an alley.
A single gunshot round
To the heart.
Her purse still clenched
To her side.

In the news,
The said a woman died,
Not mentioning
How her words
Flowed on the lines
Of her steno pad
Or how those same words
Would curl and twist
Into the audience,
Bringing them into her world.
All they said was
A woman died in Brooklyn.

Brooklyn,
New York City and yet not NYC,
Urban yet suburban,
Long Island and yet not LI.
Safe and yet unsafe.
Brooklyn was just right for her.

A poet died in Brooklyn,
A bullet to her heart,
A lover not to be found.
A lover not wanting to be found.

He had a history,
A history of splitting lips
Of black eyes
And broken ribs,
All of which were
Found on the poet.

The poet was not made
Of the stock
That allowed this abuse.
Without a paragraph,
A sentence,
A word,
She left him in Los Angeles.

From there she found homes
In Las Vegas, Chicago
And every city
She could could lose herself.
Every time he would find her.

That day in Brooklyn,
He found the poet.
He shot the poet.
He left the poet
In an alley to die.

Days passed,
Her words were found,
Her story told.
He was found,
A noose tied tightly
Around his neck.
An abuser died in Brooklyn.
The final word was written.

(Pic: Soul Spectrum)