Wednesday, June 28, 2017

A Crying Woman

Murmur, sigh, keep it soft as a female

should. For a strong woman never loses

to pain, she builds a steel bridge

that must always, finally carry her to the safety

of overcoming. So when an invisible stake,

dipped in the miserable malevolence of bad luck,

a fi har time, better luck next time or what an ass

to deal with a man like that; when it ravages a cruel

hole through the most tender part of caring for a lout –
the heart, indeed, the woman must never cry.

If she cries, she is unworthy. Worse,

if she weeps in his presence, she is a failure.

She has failed at being a wife, a life partner

because her weakness has shown itself.

No man wants a fragile woman. Or so he said.

My mother never cried…in front of me.

As the grief of losing her mother consumed her,

she became thin and unfocused. An experienced cook,

yet she beat the lid of a pressure cooker til it

savagely relented on her chest. And still, no tears;

only shame. Because she should have known better.

Well, I cried for my mother. And my grandmother.

And myself. So if the world don’t want a crying woman,

I will reinvent the world in my head. I will softly, gently
stroke the nape of my neck and say, it’s ok. You can cry.