by Richard Storm
for Judy Shepard and Sybrina Fulton
Another mother’s son is dead.
He was different, out of place,
perhaps underestimated his enemies.
Hardly capital crimes.
The mother could be curled up in her bed,
blinds drawn, taking sedatives.
She is making statements, talking to reporters,
thanking supporters, crying out for justice.
She knows it will not bring her son back.
She hopes it may prevent another
mother feeling what she feels.
My son is dead.
Let it mean something.
Richard Storm moved from his native Oregon to Manhattan in 1978 to pursue an acting career. A charter member of brevitas, an email poetry collective, he believes poetry need not be obscure to be poetic.
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