Watery Eyes

I think to myself, I’ve been a bitch today

and she tells me her eyes are watering.

I tell her that this movie makes me cry

and her hands reach forward to dab.

Holding my gaze, she assures me

this part is good.

I hold onto a refrain of mothering

and my stomach tells me

that yearning is forceful work.

Unquenching

cacophonous

caches never emptied.

Making us moody,

leaving us older.

You have a headache,

she thinks to ask me.

Reaching her fingers to catch

the tears leaving eyelids,

mine and hers.

Caught between remembering

and forgetfulness,

yielding no more to words

than to maturing love.

Immaturity sighs

like sleeping chests breathe,

springing up from

what’s alive still,

if also haunted.

If, still.

Understanding

at once the salve I need,

and a more knowing judgement.

The only kind one remembers.

The only closeness

you can’t insulate against.

A thought?

No.

Something,

something else.

Quiet,

the hallmark of a nursing

ghost being attended.

Linger,

a prayer description of our fears,

and our longings.

And dabbed only

with small enough hands.

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.

Writer. Thinker. Facilitator. Advocate. Invested in accountability for power based violence, creative initiatives, and meaningful, nuanced dialoguing.