The earth quaked in Northridge, California.

Winds of death struck Alabama

President Nixon took his last breath.


My memories of these events are overshadowed.

Overshadowed by the black and white.



The white Bronco. Oh, how she raced.

Weaving in and out, full speed ahead.

The adrenaline of being chased.



The black gloves that saved me.

“If the glove doesn’t fit, you must acquit.”




The deep red that poured from her pale skin.

Not one, not two, but many punctures.

Her bones exposed.



The orange jumpsuit I should be wearing indefinitely.

Murder in the first degree.

Behind bars for eternity.


But I didn’t do it.

No, I am innocent.

I loved that woman.


Those blonde locks, porcelain skin.

Those rose lips, hazel eyes.

Despite the divorce papers.

Despite the domestic abuse.

Despite the hatred.

No, I loved that woman.


Hope to see you soon,

But we both know I won’t.

You are surrounded by white.

I will soon be surrounded by red. 

This poem is about: 
My country


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