**In loving memory of my friend’s mother, who passed away unexpectedly last week**
Today my pen fails me;
it does not ooze ornate melodies,
or fabricate luscious narratives.
It does not stain paper with color,
or paint images of sun.
I thought I could write something for everything;
the way pain feels inside me now;
the way confusion sits unsettled in my veins;
the way I know what is happening but I don’t.
Perhaps I will say:
How selfish I feel
to wish someone back,
from her Father’s arms,
for the sake of life’s motions.
No other words accompany me
in this struggle to grasp
what has happened,
no words exist to lessen
the blow we subsist.
Perhaps it is not necessary,
to be able to pen everything.
Some things are