Denise Wooten, a community activist and resident of Borchert Field, writes about the fears shared by mothers of black youth and the grief of those whose sons and daughters have been killed by police and others.

Believe that the Book of Lamentations
Was written just for them
The wailing and gnashing of teeth begins
For a life gone far too soon

Still sitting in the dark
She waits and listens for a key turning in the lock
The reassuring sound of a child
That will never return

Empty wombs evolved into overcrowded tombs
Arms that once cradled and rocked promises
Now only embrace desolate thoughts
Of what might have been

If only…

He had turned left instead of right
Been raised on another block
She had come home a little earlier
Didn’t drive but hailed a taxi

Too many mothers
Forced to choose a nice suit or a dress
Not for the prom but for the grave
We’ve seen it in their eyes

Too many mothers
Raise babies they did not birth
Picking up the mantle
Left behind by the ones they did

Too many mothers
Struggle with unanswered bewilderment
She knows no amount of protesting
Can comfort her shattered heart

Too many mothers
Avoid the telephone
In case the voice on the other end
Is the one she never saw coming