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,


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.


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