sister, I tried.
I pleaded with my pen
to find ink for happy words,
for cheerful words,
to bless you on your wedding day
but it could not.
the pen knew my hand was guiding it
and would not bear false witness
to any joy today,
this poem could have been so different.
it should have been so different,
written to you with my daughter
nuzzled softly on my shoulder,
drifting off into sleep from the sweet aroma
sister, I would have liked
to have sent you off
with words coated in passion and elation,
cooing about the bliss
of journeying through life
with someone you love.
but like I said,
my pen refuses to play games today
and the truth is,
I don’t remember what sweet love is like.
my husband and I have traded that love in
for something else.
it sort of resembles love
but it is ferocious and exhausted
and it creaks and moans
as we mop up our daughter’s blood
and press on.
It is a type of love,
I hope you and your new husband
never need to know.