There Are No Honest Poems About Dead

I Am Black Because I Come From The Earth's Inside Now Take My Word For Jewel In The Open Light.

I Have Come To Believe That Caring For Myself Is Not Self-indulgent. Caring For Myself Is An Act Of Survival.

In Other Words, I Would Be Giving In To A Myth Of Sameness Which I Think Can Destroy Us.

What Is There Possibly Left For Us To Be Afraid Of, After We Have Dealt Face To Face With Death And Not Embraced It? Once I Accept The Existence Of Dying As A Life Process, Who Can Ever Have Power Over Me Again?

Attend Me, Hold Me In Your Muscular Flowering Arms, Protect Me From Throwing Any Part Of Myself Away.