Real Men Do Cry

Holding her chin
And planting a slow nervous kiss
I wobbled my grafting lips
To my baptism to a gender
Until watery dew moistened
My sun-lit eyes

Holding her hand
And seeing a tiny curls-implanted head
Emerge from the depths of her hipbones
And open her splintered eyes
I cried an ocean

Holding her breasts
And letting time drift like a sail
I held her as she battled her own ghosts
The melancholy blue-coats of her inheritance
Weeping by her bedside

Holding her heart
I lingered as she battled her predicament of cancer
As I implored mercilessly at a gamut of gods
With a prayer for the living
Until my eyes opened to a monsoonal surrender
When my own grief plundered my soul
In ripples of agony

They say that men don’t cry
Yet I have rounded past many mileposts
Defeated in gender but exposed to my own feelings
When tears rolled down the ducts of my eyes
And flowed downriver on my cheeks
When all the make-up I wore over the years
Was washed from the face of a chauvinist
As two macho eyes were emasculated
Of her acquired manliness

Now I stare at a bathroom mirror
To reminisce the forgotten beauty from long ago
When a eunuch lives within every man
What is lost to the rite of puberty
But regained as an instinct
In the many hues of love


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s