Your Poem 

I can’t remember

The poem you asked me to read

At your funeral.

Only that it was atheist

And questioned heaven.

Newly pregnant

with your grandchild;

No one knew.

I composed myself

All morning,

So that I could read,

In a chapel of an Oxford college,

Full

Of those who knew how to….

And I did a terrible job of it.

I’m sorry.

I failed grieving for you too;

I couldn’t publicly

Mourn the loss of my ally,

The one who saw me for who I was

And loved me for it.

I had to read your poem,

For you.

And for that I was damned.

Damned for staying composed,

For not shedding a tear.

I loved you

You knew me and I knew you.

And in one small act,

I was outcast

When you left.

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So Hum

She surrenders to change
Not wanting to know why,
Released the desire
And the need to be needed.
Visioned with clarity
What is
Not what was promised;
Or desired.
Grasped this sacred experience
And learned the lessons.
Accepted the dissatisfaction
The untruths of life,
But not of love:
And let go.

Om Asato Maa Sad-Gamaya
Tamaso Maa Jyotir-Gamaya
Mrtyor-Maa Amrtam Gamaya
Om Shaantih Shaantih Shaantih