I Saw Daddy Noiselessly Cry on Mama’s Lap
slow like a turtle
his broad-shoulder shell
the weight of a house
laying on foundation
laying on solace
laying on woman.
when the world crumbles its troubles
on men
as it most often does,
he would clasp his hands in prayer
and marinate on her lap
her hips —
as wide as the ocean — held him — so wide one would think a miracle could spawn from the space,
the comfort of home weaves in curves
— so stable, one think her thighs were stone.
From her, I learned care —
my mother’s tender hands accepts his rough skin in surrender
leaning on each other,
body to body
even as reality spear tries to mutilate.
though
the world sees my father as more scary and less scared
being black
and man
my mother knows the tension in his body tenderly
her palms embrace every ache under his steel-armor.
From him, I learned body language —
how tear ducts could shy away from
family, daughter, the bitch-of-life
but how,
sometimes,
man can’t help but to cry through his body
crack the erect shape of his limps to something less than defender
How men.
Sometimes.
can’t help but to sulk in the confines of an unanticipated protector.
Vulnerable.
Free.
and still
man.
