I'm glad she's dead —
that's what the people in town are saying,
now that you're off the streets,
and out from under their boyfriends
and husbands and sons.
Now the only thing you're under
is that mound of dirt,
patchy grass, slippery mud that gets
sticky and wet with the spring rain.
Rain, not tears for you.
Nobody comes here to cry —
though several have brought their dogs
to come take a dump on your bones.
I come here today to carry out a promise —
a selfish promise, but a promise just the same.
I told you that, when you died, I would buy
every red rose at the Walmart and
come throw them on your grave.
I said I would sing and dance,
and I'm going to do it,
once I finish having a word with you —
Finally, a conversation you can't interrupt!
Here, take your roses.
But I just have to tell you,
while I was handing my money
to that cashier who looked old,
and tired, saggy-jawed and
rodehardandputawaywet —
I realized that she could have been you,
or you could have been her,
if you'd ever had the chance to become
something other than an unwanted woman.
Her life seems miserable?
Not compared to yours.
Not compared to the woman with
a stable of perverted sugar daddies,
men who were too busy eyeing your own daughter,
a greedy heart, a bitter soul,
no custody, no visitation,
no friends, no family.
The cashier has wrinkles. You had nothing.
I've cast out the beam in my own eye,
just so I could get a better look at the mote in yours.
And I finally see that you acted up
because you were never wanted.
Boys didn't want you.
Men didn't really want you.
Women didn't want you —
not that you wanted any of them.
But your own parents didn't want you around.
Your children cried when they saw you.
Your son turned away when he saw you
coming up the aisle at Food Giant,
because his friends would've laughed
if they knew you were the one
who brought him into this world
only to abandon him.
But the whole time, you were also left
to rot, to be made to feel unwanted.
You had nowhere to go,
and no one to embrace you
unconditionally.
No one brushed your soft hair,
warmed your bathwater,
saved a slice of cornbread for you,
gave selflessly just to see you smile.
You were never wanted —
and you were made to feel it.
Now, why am I crying?
I don't feel sorry for you —
in that, I am unswerving —
but I feel sorry for every person
who's interchangeable with you.
There will come a day when I can dance,
but I have to go easy on myself.
My knees are shaking.
I'll save the dance for another day —
I'll have to break that promise for now.
