In its brevity the letter said it all

And in my moment of quiet despair

The tear I could not let fall

Lingered anyway before it slipped back inside

Its pouch where mourning has become a necessity

“The Raven’s wings have turned to white,”

The letter said, and went on to report

How Jenn Sloan, the Ravyn, had died of cancer

Late in March.

And I bit my lip recalling her

The horror of a young nomadic life

Redeemed by an act of kindness;

By a child born; and yet:  how she struggled

Against the black tides that rolled over her

Long after she had been saved. 

I remember her black wings beating in righteous wrath
Against injustices the more fortunate among us

Would take in stride, but when I wanted to understand

All I had to do was read her journals

And her poems and count my lucky stars.

She ran from one obscenity in her early days

To stumble into

Others more extreme, and though I never met her

There was no doubt in my mind she told me

True and still held some evil back lest it all

Become too numbing, and unbelievable

I was one of the few men she trusted

And I shall take that badge and wear it

Proudly, for it meant the world to me

And when I think of her, it will not

Be in abiding grief. Lord knows, she had too

Much of that and deserves a smile for the light she always

Tried to shine into the darkest cave of human experience

“The Raven wings have turned to white,”

The Letter said, and yes, I can smile at that

Mourning that the Ravyn flies no more

But knowing, in the folds of that elusive peace

She sought forever, how – at last, at last- she soars!

05/23/2004

Author's Note: For Jenn Sloan, whose fire I always wish I had and whose deep passion for life made me believe in redemption of the human spirit against all odds.

Posted on 05/23/2004
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch