CRYING AS AN ART FORM.
Mother made act of crying
An art form; she knew
Sense of tears on cheek
And leak from blue of eyes.
Father would have his way
Of bringing on the tears in
Her, making the blue eyes
Red, bruising the cheek of
Bone and flesh, making an
Art of bringing black and
Blue in such human skin.
You recall once the time
He slapped her cheek with
A back of hand for making
Remark in jest: you look like
A Yank with that camera held
So. You never could divine how
Love could have altered form
And made a mockery of care
And concern and deepest sense
Of being well and other’s need
Of being needed here and now.
You think that Father lost it if
He had it ever at all. Some how.
