by Anne F. Walker
stand at san quentin’s gate at midnight
protesting the murderer’s murder while
the life of gem’s sister
unexpectedly seeps away to a cancer
that started as pressure behind her
eyes.
How could you not protest death itself
dispersing after midnight, arm around
gem and a weight barely bridged as you span
the san rafael skyway home
through the toxins of richmond
to cosy bricked berkeley cosy cosy here.
