The white-haired burst
of firecracker laughter
named Stella
finally went silent
this morning.
Cookie sits
at the kitchen table
surrounded by
pill regiments
insurance papers
and her reassuring family.
“What am I going to do?”
I have nothing profound
to offer.
When the center
of your world
has been taken,
ruthlessly, stealthily
like a cyclone
in a silent movie,
when the directions
on your compass
have been smeared away
by grief
in what direction
does one proceed?
Slowly
step by step
onward.
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