In all this crumbling, something precious.

here's my mother, a superabsorbent polymer

soaking up all my father's water. she cradles

his head like a sacred flame, and blows softly

on his tears before she drinks it. sometimes

I think, when life shows up the driest twig

and snaps into bits before you can believe

your eyes, love should resemble this pose: one 

frightened mammal in the breast of the other.

both sharing the same blue, dwindling heartbeat. 

one the waterfall, the other the plunge pool

where the distraught energies go to die.

here's my father, spring without flowers,

spouting, and quaking, like a real man. for the

first time in forever, he is too broken to worry 

about visuals - he knows I can see him 

dripping with stitches & the memory of that water

never goes away. it stays and mummifies

into silent wonder: what will happen to 

his shoulder now? the macho thing he lofts high 

enough to make gravity sigh. perhaps, they learn 

not to vex gravity for appearance's sake: 

sooner or later, earth reclaims all things - 

like dust reclaims dust. & clouds reclaim tears.

& so I come away with weeping wisdom. 

for there is something precious in all this crumbling:

to see a man broken is to see him 

blessed with cracks, open & ripe for light.