I still cry about my father once a day.
Sometimes it's in the morning
when I pass the funeral home
or drive over the center line
or see a bird or a bus stopped
kids getting on, parents waving.
I am careful with my tears then
blotting them off before they erase
the concealer that makes my age
more palatable to the others.
Sometimes it's at lunch or at my desk
or in a bathroom stall where I can hear
my own small voice smack the tiles
like tiny beads falling to the floor.
I cry when it is quiet or loud
when the tv is on or off
when it is light or dark
I cry every reason and none.
I have seen life leave six bodies:
a bird, two dogs, two people.
it looks the same—like sleep
a single moment punctuated more
by a question mark than a period.
and you think well that's it then.
and it is.
and you wash the dishes and drive
and water the plants.
Sometimes I forget to cry until 11
when the pain killers and bad tv kick in
and by morning those tears
have dried in tight, crusty lines
that I will conceal and blot.
conceal and blot.