I can't cry.
We parted like pro and con
with the argument hanging in the air,
and no hope of resolving anything,
because, unlike the proverbial mule,
neither of us had been hit by a two-by-four!

I can't cry.
This is too important for mere tears,
when my heart wilts like cooked cabbage,
and this long path to be taken
stretches through the desert
of my being, hopeless and unending.

I can't cry.
How can there be tears in a sere desert?
Life-giving fluid is at a premium.
My eyes are dry, my skin is dry, my lips.
You will never kiss me again.
You will never kiss me again!

Ursula T. Gibson, 3-2-94

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