A candle was her stove for cooking stew,
A spoon was a pan in which fell her life,
Her husband was a crowd she never knew,
Stabbed herself with a needle for a knife,
There were no friends or family that cried,
No marks are monuments made on the way,
Nothing that was left of her after she died,
The coroner came and took her away.

Another body in a bag of black,
This time with the label Jane not John Doe
Dated and toe-tagged then thrown on the stack,
None asked questions they didn’t want to know.

No time to talk of candles or of spoons,
Of dying too young or of unmarked tombs