Source: http://thefluentone.com/The_Fluent_One/Poetry/Entries/2011/8/7_Torn.html

A friend and member of my fraternity was murdered the week before I went to the National Poetry Slam. Her funeral was held on the night of finals. I wrote this the night I found out about her death knowing I would be in Boston as she was laid to rest in Houston.

To Mikal Miktosha James.

Before you were one of Icharist’s 22 roses,

You were already a flower blooming in confidence.

A maroon dress in oversized boots,

a voice hanging onto the silhouette of music,

you were a bright smile in a freshman talent show.

I’ve never wished death on anyone.

At 7:58 loyalty replaced christian morals.

Peter claimed an ear,

I want this roman to do more than listen,

his instrument crucial to this concerto .

If he wasn’t such a coward,

I would have killed him myself.

Forgiveness and hope

are beautiful ideals best left in stories.

My tears hold more love than his putrid soul.

I can write away pain,

but ink doesn’t replace flesh,

doesn’t provide guidance for an abandoned son.

No matter how well scripted I am torn

between grief and anger.

As your sun sets

I should be looking for your name in a constellation.

He was a black hole mongrel

incapable of appreciating light.

While I am in Boston,

smothered by poetry

a diaspora of muses and beauty,

You will be a beautifully mourned corpse

a shell of determination and love

a mother of tenacity.

I wish That I would have called you.

I talked about it the night before.

But ghosts named “Should have”,

and “Could have”,

will only haunt me as long as I remain silent.

So I thought I’d write you a eulogy,

but fingers kept clasping around an elided neck.

Did he ever appreciate your voice?

Ever join you in song?

I’d play his screams like wailing notes of a guitar solo,

split brass string sinews on stage in grand finale.

Rock ballads always sound best at dusk,

when the crest of the sun has faded under a violet sky.

Violent eyes, will turn crimson with blood sport,

teach him how difficult it is to breathe

with a collapsed chest.

He is unworthy of the battered rib he destroyed.

You were so much more than a friend.

For every time you stood up for me,

to the skillet we scorched you in.

You were a blissful rainbow that believed

the future is never certain,

that hardship is only a stepping stone.

Your smile was my north star

in a country college campus,

a reminder that even when lost,

I would know which way was up.

You covered the scars of back biters

with a silk robe of humility.

Draped over your shoulders

you were grace under fire

delicate step of conviction.

Nothing hurts me more

than knowing I won’t be able to say goodbye.

That I am on the other side of the country

wearing the mask of a smile painted in tears.

I never envisioned myself as a geisha.

At my imaginary service,

attended by people who nothing of your beauty and soul,

I pray your sprit is as warm in heaven

as it was on Earth.