being a well

"Be a man" he said,
"bury your feelings,"-
suppression and oppression
still themes of the nation-
emotions are worthless,
lest they be pity,
and wear the face-pity wears the soul.

I haven’t cried since ninety-four-
my grandfather crossed from shore to shore
shortly after serving scripture that Sunday morn,
but I

waited for the funeral-

A seafaring vessel buried in soil,
destined to whither and rot: memories of Noah’s ark-

Since then, nothing.

Does water from the well
Flow over and past the lips?

No,
Not here.
Here its hollow and stone down to a reflection
Which refills itself after drawn on
By others.
Even the neighbors, unsuspecting as they are, are the same.

His wife, my father’s mother, lasted well
Until cancer cast its diminishing spell,

The way I hoped to go-
until she stole my dream
retribution for some earlier currency. (Payback I suppose for the money)

She talked to him near the end
Between shallow open-ended
Distant breaths,
But I already knew-

Damn ouigi

But still, I stood tall and didn’t cry
Not even a fight, though I bled inside-
Like the sky that day to save some water for another day.