The night she died
you said you felt death
in the air
at the rave
in the L.A. barrio.

Hip Hop brought us together
for one last fling
before the summer
faded,
but it was the iconic figure,
the only true legend in Jazz
that made me believe
in God
and you.

‘Round midnight,
the handgun,
unregistered, shielded from view,
and the ensuing fight
on the dance floor
never swayed the D.J.
from playing
Sarah’s song
as it all went down . . .

Your knees buckled
to the rhythm, the voice, the words
and we fell, in slow motion
to the cold cement in a hot sweat
of the shooter’s house
as the shots fired overhead.

But for those
who slow danced
and stood tall
unmoved by the passion
blood ran cold and streaky
on the sterile metal tables
in the morgue
only a few hours later.

Her majesty
could not escape
the same fickle finger
to death’s baton beat
as her heart beat
for the last time
in the same hospital
that withheld the names
of the trinity.

Though others screamed
and cried for lost friends
that morning after,
I prayed only for you
as I dug deeper
and you moaned,
shouting her name
and the lyrics
of the song
Sarah sang
that saved us both
the night she died
as we both gave in
to the music’s
rapture.