Her tears only dripped when my eyes closed.
I pretended not to hear them
but I listened,
I listened to the clutch of her heart
whisper an apology asking for the forgiveness/of my hunger.
I wasn’t mad at mama,
she was younger;
younger than most mother’s.
Twenty-one years of age
standing in welfare lines
reaching
for free cheese and powdered milk
to go with the half empty jar of mayonnaise
and three slices of bread
sealed with a rubber band
to protect
from the rats and roaches.
I didn’t like when mama cried
because I knew how hard she tried
to hide the desperation that strangled her;
to fight back against the deep kicks of poverty
that was like a bully on a playground
laughing and tripping
until she was just tired of falling –
but she kept strong for me,
because a five year old didn’t know
the strange man at the door
was there to shut off the gas
and a five year old didn’t know
the rent was two months late
because the fifty seven dollars
worth
of food stamps just weren’t enough
to keep food on my plate
and a five year old didn’t know
his daddy was just a sperm donor,
more like a dead beat cloner.
I didn’t like when mama cried
but She did
and didn’t hide her tears
to well…because her eyes
always would sing to me
the blues
andt they told me, with a soft voice,
that things would be alright
and they eventually were
because my eyes were enough
to give her the lyrics of strength; lyrics
which created a song still echoing
and spinning on the turntable of life
I’ll always remember mama’s tears.
They flowed to give me a future;
a future built off struggle and commitment
and those tears were the fuel
that energized our survival
but still,
I didn’t like when mama cried
because even within the silence of her smile,
I heard the blues in her eyes.
© 2009
Tarringo T Vaughan
“Tears Of A Poet”
