December 03rd, 2016

​​Dry eyes
By Mindi Rose Englart
 
 
There are little strips of paper in my eyes
One of the physical indignities I’ve suffered over
A lifetime of fear about my body
Saying goodbye to me too soon
 
Yet I am still here. Mostly intact
While my mother nears the end
Of her body. Out of tact. She cries
Almost all the time now
 
I don’t know why I’m crying, she cries
I can’t stop crying, she cries
I can’t start, I think.
 
The strips are laid into my reddened rims
The timer begins. Those moments are more
Significant than the ones before
Or after. Timed moments, they matter to someone. Besides me
 
The strips are removed. The doctor confirms the obvious
You are not producing enough tears
Yes, I know. I tell him
Artificial tears will help, he says. But, of course, they don’t
 
What would help is having a different story
Behind my mother and her life
One where her own mother did not suppress her cries with
The pills meant for her husband’s manic depression
 
She asks, now, for pills to stop this, this stream
Of free-floating sadness
She receives them. A steady Hospice flow
And still she cries, can’t say why
 
This is my mother’s time to cry
She will not be stopped, a feminist finally
Later I tell this to myself. And I tell myself—good for her
My mother is crying for us all