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I’m standing now like I stood then:
My eyes and back downturned, hands in pockets.
I was always behind you, watching your shoulders shake
After yet another subdued conversation faded and died.
Words failed me. I failed you.
My mind has always drifted.
The world could end, and I, I
Would ponder my shoelaces.
I had to wonder, as your back bent under some imagined weight
Had you been alone—had I been gone—
Would you have cried harder?
Would you have let out more than quivering air?
Or would you have been stronger, tighter in the shoulders,
Forced deeper into yourself by solitude?
I don’t like tears.
They burn worse than acid; deeper, longer;
It’s agony to clean or cauterize a wound.
Better to let your eyes water by mistake
Four months later in the winter wind.
Better to take that cold inside
And freeze them at their source.
I didn’t quite hate you, but it was hard.
Your grief came so easy, like a summer storm:
Rattled you from root to tips, blew away,
And left your soul green and growing.
You brought me closest to thaw, brother.
If you had turned and let me see clearly,
It would have shattered me,
Drowned me in my own sudden flood.
I had to wonder, as your throat hitched for air,
Why we men weren’t allowed tears
Why I would want such a thing
Why any man or woman should need them
Why I was wasting my Goddamn time.
I had to wonder, as you surreptitiously wiped your eyes,
Will I watch you again,
Wordless and dry although myself unwatched?
Will you shake and huddle for me?
Or will I stand, forever sunglassed and blank and alone
Above your fresh grass-scented grave,
Frightened by this strange, empty relief?
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