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  • 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.
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