Tagged: tears
in the hushed pockets
in the hushed pockets
behind the front teeth, the taste of
salt when the tears still
come after twelve years, looking
up at the five-day-old moon
.
20220205:2315
y
who schedules
who schedules
and builds
the layering within an
onion, assembles
each membrane
with the fleshy
parts, alternating
resistance
and tears?
.
20190409:1935
y
** in the absence of The Daily Post from WordPress, here’s your daily prompt: alternating
lunch friday, a small
lunch friday, a small
sadness, our eyes wet before
the waiter arrived –
armed with the right
fork and knife, we
could not cut through
the heaviness
.
20151205:0547
y
death is an irritant
death is an irritant
triggering our bodies to
begin its slow defense –
only within the
loneliness
of our shells
can we learn to
seal off injury,
adapt, try
for anything
resembling a pearl
.
20141007:0147
y
if i could spare one
a year and a morning
a year and a morning
later, we did not have to
say anything –
beneath and between
the ambiguities of
a full term, we hid
the heaviness, over-
looked the sorrow –
a makeshift anniversary
to shelter the tears
.
20110219:1656
y
i am a secret
i am a secret
collapsible concept
this week – now you
see me, now you
don’t. i get into
bed each night
knowing that
i will suck
the air out of
myself until i lose.
by morning, the same
doubts produce
their sharpened
instruments just beneath
the lids and start
drilling against
the fresh
flesh, nothing different
to report. it has been
a week. but i haven’t
cried today, i
haven’t cried today
.
20100225:1647
y
i tried
i tried
to turn the words
around, but to be
honest, there is very little
words can
undo once done
they came straight
out of the envelope
so neatly, with a tinge
of regret – and
i could tell
that they had taken time
to iron their dark suits,
some pleated skirts, a
handful of ties, before
making this journey
i tried
to turn the words
around, but lost
eye contact as
several clusters
suddenly bent
over to wring
out their formerly
perfect attires
.
20100222:2046
y
20080221
a dry eye is bravery
blinking a morse code signal –
three short, three long,
three short – my father
taught me this and even
now, i can hear his silvery
dits and dahs demonstrating
this subtle manipulation
of distress
i’m hiding in the bathroom
i haven’t used anything else
.
20080221:1735
y
y 