The tears are not coming.
They have sent their regrets.
The weeping is on hiatus.
And yet I am so upset.
My sadness will not abate
Without an emotional release
But the S.N.R.I. I'm taking
Makes it hard to attain that peace
I used to cry quite often,
Others must have thought me weak,
But I regarded it as a blessing;
A badge of sorrow flowing down my cheek.
This day we celebrate mothers.
They who nursed us with great care.
Who praised and nagged and fed us
And told us what to wear.
The metastasized foreign colonies
Flourished under small domes.
Like little stationary marbles,
Up and down her arms.
My mother was so afraid
Of dying in great pain;
We spoke of it so often that
It's seared into my brain.
It was a kind of blessing
Among all the emotional boil
That the anesthesia induced dementia
Unraveled her mortal coil.
I really have to concentrate
As method actors do
To darken my mind even further
And bring the tears to fore.
But even if I succeed
In satiating this grief.
I know it'll be back again,
Bundled into sheaves.
