Author's Note:  "Are There No Words" was inspired by a funeral mass, which my fifth grade class was enlisted to attend, of a young girl who had  succumbed to leukemia. The poem is addressed to her mother, whose anguished, unrelenting crying I hear to this day. "On My Way" was inspired by a much more recent encounter I had with a woman in New York. From her neat appearance, I thought she was simply going to ask for directions. How wrong I was. Still, I believe I satisfied her request.


Are There No Words

Her tiny coffin still
rests on wheels, easy 
to gently push, too easy 
to lift and carry 
the rest of the way 
to eternity. Words 
from the altar still flutter
away in perpetuity, 
unsettled by your 
crying, and
crying, and
crying. 
            I, a witness 
you would not notice 
and never knew, alive
in the lifetime leukemia 
denied your daughter
and you, survive
to wonder: 
                   Did you ever
know laughter, the respite
it can bring; smile with patience 
at children, or anyone 
imploring you to 
sing; find the words 
that would not flutter 
in futility when you
gave them up – or did your
crying, and
crying, and 
crying 
never stop.





On My Way


I was on my way 
to a class reunion, 
where the beer and
beef steak would flow
all night. Bundled up 
in a handsome coat
and hat appropriate for 
a businesswoman glaring down
the wintry bite, you were dragging 
a suitcase (or was the suitcase 
prodding you), slowly, 
gradually, to nowhere near 
where I was heading. In the spiky 
shadows of wrought-iron 
church gates, somber but 
silent in their disapproval,
you stopped me. Even 
in the face of your twisted 
grimace, I was proudly 
prepared to provide whatever 
direction would propel you 
securely on your way. But 
unprepared – only briefly, 
thankfully – for the prayer
you offered in angry 
agony, politely: 
“Will you help me, 
please? I’m ​so hungry.”​