Sometimes you seem like a dream
that goes away with first morning light.

Blood on the sidewalk and your bright white shirt, tied-dyed your rich red.
Washed away by the gardener, quick to erase the memory
Sorrowful witnesses look away.

Thirteen times he drove his knife as you fought. A squeamish discussion a week before:
quivering “Go for the eyes.” tamped down by “But those things don’t happen in Lincoln.”

The bushes later disturbed again by gloved hands, looking for the knife
where you had laid with your killer

11:30 you watched as your blood seeped away
off the cold table. Slick

The doctors worked but could not stop it, too many holes
Your killer crouched in the alley weeds and bushes,
a snake who had been sent back to his country, only to return again and again – until this last
time.

His hate lashed out against women. Today it was you Katherine, but how many others
before?
He lay coiled in the Police car, sweating.
And as you died within your circle of white coats

I know you saw God
for your real journey had begun.
Earth was just your “Way Station”.