I always knew It was a She.
After all, who else has the power to hate with smiles
And give birth to Revolutions…
There had to be estrogen sleeping beside the pools
Of thick blood on Park Avenue,
Where a dead man lay with his eyes open.
He was probably in Love. I could tell by the shape of his mouth,
Slightly curved up at the corners and flat in the center,
Giving his face a look of balanced insanity.
The shoes on his feet were a rich brown
Calling attention to the color of his eyes.
Who did he look at last? Make Love to last? Surely he made Love.
I walked around the perimeter of his body,
Wondering if an enigmatic chalk outline remained hidden beneath
His torn torso.
Nothing. No chalk or crayons outlined his soul.
But there was something shining on his left hand, middle finger.
A silver ring with a small dagger in the middle.
The dagger was dull but centered, and if turned sideways,
Resembled a human leg. A shiny human leg.
Funny how fast things can change.
As I left the body and its observers,
I could not help but wonder that It used to have a gender,
A life, a Love, a lasting impact on someone, somewhere.