dead tomorrows

for the mama’s who

have had to bury tomorrow &

go on without it’s promise

for women who have placed

a piece of themselves

in a box & buried it

six feet under ground

burned it placed in in an urn

brought it home

sitting on porches

looking for a reason

backs straight

faces crumbled

no light in the eyes

the temple is open

but the lights are burned

out nights are longer

corners and empty rooms

speak inanimate objects take

on life nothing is as it was or

will ever be again time stops

hearts still beat trees lose leaves

spring returns but the footsteps

you recognized in your sleep

are silent forever

I pray you peace

About Ayodele Nzinga, MFA, PhD

I create; therefore I am.
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