Murder reduced

to counting bodies

naming names

dates and days

processioning through

plagued streets.

Grief – a spectacle

feeding news.

Your life – no life – what

life – which and whose fucking life matters?

Blank headlines

do not shed tears

or hear the ending

of a living heart.

A black woman asleep on a train

is no news is good news

until the day arrives

and she becomes

a fact of death.

While the shadow of youth

on an ever-narrowing Strip

between the sea and tyranny

is blinded by sun moomlight

a martyr for our distant pleasure.