I cannot help but wonder where we go
when death strokes our fevered brows.
Why must I agonize over death as well as life?

I screamed, “I will die!” upon my birth,
saw shadows when the sun was high,
peered into darkness past my worth,
and always cried.

Cried out in fear I’d disappear,
wept into nights, cried over days,
not understanding why I wasn't happier,
but I tried.

I feel the world cannot be healed
unless the depth of loss is dealt its honor,
observed, affirmed, and wept over;
I have always cried.

I cannot see where we will go
when life deserts our fevered brows.
I agonize over the deaths of ants. Why must I?

Erin Moen
11/13/03
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