Ars Poetica

When I was 5, I stole a piece of candy from the grocery store.
When I was 11, with my throat burning, I confessed this sin
to my father, who tilted his head as he looked at me and said,
Why are you telling me this?

Years later I gave birth to my one dear son,
and when I whispered my hopes and dreams
in his ear, he looked at me like my father did.
Now too, I guess, I was not making any sense.

Sometimes, language is insufficient.

When Young Mothers Die of Cancer II

Somewhere in Maryland a
young mother is dying.
Down in Houston her mother grieves.
In California her children play together,
as she would have liked had she
lived long enough to see it.

At night sometimes she comes to them,
her smell sweet and familiar,
her hug warm and longed for.
She wraps them tight in memory.

In the morning they say nothing
Afraid someone will tell them it wasn't real.

When Young Mothers Die of Cancer I

If you want to know whether life is fair
just look to the young mother dying of cancer.

There is no reason, no rhythm, no why
just grief
and sorrow
and loss
Of hugs
and birthdays
and the future
and hope

They know what we are afraid to admit.
That the only thing this money can't really buy
is more time.