"My mother is this mourning mother who begged  
the staff to search for her daughter, but was denied.  

Black mothers are often seen pleading for their children,  
shown stern and wailing, held back somehow by police  

or caution tape—  

a black mother just wants to see her baby’s body.  
a black mother just wants to cover her baby’s body  

with a sheet on the street. A black mother  
leaves the coffin open for all the world to see,  

and my mother is no different. She is worried  
about seeing the last minutes of me: pre-ghost,  

stumbling alone through empty hotel hallways  
failing to find balance, searching for a friend,  

a center, anyone, to help me home. Yes."

Read this poem.