I'm sorry, all
for getting angry.
My vision blurs.
My sight recedes.
I think I'm right.
The same old song.
My heart is right;
My love is wrong.

Can you comprehend
the pain I must feel
to see through my own disguise?
How can I let go
when the things that I know
got me here, with you?

Last night, the moon broke orbit.
Back and forth it wavered.
It seemed to be drawing closer-
I faced imminent obliteration.
But I recalled from my study of
ASTRONOMY
just how unlikely it was.
And just like that,
the moon snapped back into place.

I was born right.
But loved wrong.

I wake in the quiet hours
When the world is sleeping
I roll over, drawn to your warm and soft skin
You roll over and groan
Waking from the world of dreaming
Mumbling beautiful nothings in your French smoky tone
In the dark, my senses guide my lips to yours and you pull me home

You gently rise
I listen to your sweet steps as they meet the floor
The waking aroma of the espresso fill my lungs
You return to the still room
I hear the crinkling as you roll your morning cigarette
I slowly lift my head
My heavy eyes meet yours and you know what my heart is saying

Je t'aime
I am home

There was dancing at the funeral;
wild, wind-swept and whirling.
A testament to a life spent unfurling sails and fighting for a better future.
"She was a doctor, your mama" as if I didn't know. "One of the first to say,
'Man, stop calling me a girl,
I'm a professional
and hell, I'll swear like one too.'"

She started her family in this city,
and made every borough within arms reach.
Patients were closer than cousins,
and my aunts spent less time here than the women's wing of the ACLU.

Black is not a way to mourn, but to warn.
A message shouting "Stand clear, this soul is moving on."
Best prepare afterlife, cause this one made a difference here,
and she'll sure-as-**** start something over there.

To the women who dismantled the world
with their bare hands
just to build it up again.

May we know them.
To the Eleanor Roosevelts,
to the Marilyn Monroes.
To our mothers
and our grandmothers

May we be them.
Women who speak with fire
and revel in the flame,
who shatter the glass ceiling
and dance around the broken shards.

May we raise them.
To our sisters
and our daughters.
To the women who came before me
and all of the girls who will come after.

Here’s to strong women.

She had galaxies
In her eyes
And her tears
Were falling stars.