happy poem

after I share a new poem, my grandmother

challenges me to write a happy poem—

as if the poems I write are not dictated by the rain,

and the fullness of the moon.

the words flow out of me with little regard for anything

but themselves, a greedy necessity for life,

and I grant them this.

my fingers hold pen, press keys,

free the words from confinement within myself.

the words are not a reflection of my soul.

they are a compulsion, an impulse;

they are otherworldly.

joy is not the only emotion.

my grief is my own,

and I hold it tenderly in the understanding

of loving so deeply that loss tears my heart in two.

my anger is both shield and weapon,

protecting that which I love most.

my sadness is inherited

from those before me and those after me,

a generational wound that longs to heal.

the words in me long to heal and

I must let them.