WHEN A BLACK WOMAN DIES by AKHIM YUSEFF CABEY

one of her big boys rips open 
a packet of matador spinach seeds,
strews them amid a diameter 
of potted dirt and waits for water 

and sun to do their thing in the dark 
stairwell alcove. show me yours, 
water says, and sun spreads its legs
and allows water to flow inside 

its light. death, we’re told, is part of life, 
but there’s been nothing natural 
about it since its invention— 
since its invasion of the metaphoric 

heart or its growling of one’s literal
innards. how it makes the boy in us all 
prefer licking the tips of sharp
things—playing chicken with the grave

to see if it will give her back
before too much blood. the gardener 
now grown relives not just this
but that first kiss: tiny wet 

tongue peeking through big lips, 
and his unsure of themselves—
then her hands guiding his hands 
across the ass of her skintight

Levi’s. grab it, she said, I give you 
permission. spinach grows well 
alongside lettuce, mouth with scream, 
lust with patience. it has to do 

with photosynthesis, or osmosis— 
consent given unlike death which stinks up 
the long corridors of the heart 
and just takes     and takes.

A Pushcart Prize-winning Black author, AKHIM YUSEFF CABEY’s work has appeared in Colorado Review, RHINO, Callaloo, and elsewhere. Originally from the Bronx, NY, Get Funky, Get Swoll, his full-length debut collection of poetry, is forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press in 2026. He can be found on Instagram @the_fit_poet 

1 December 2025