Literary Magazine draftD (editable version) - The Sacred Heart ...

Eyelashes
by Anon
The day you went
aged me
in ways I still do not understand.
And now I sit here, holding it all in.
Mom’s trying to hold my hand
but you cannot console
someone this way when
this was not part of the plan.
We didn’t know, we never knew,
Uncle, daddy, best man.
The lights are dimmed
to a comfortable level.
Someone please define “comfort” to me.
Daddy stands, walks up to the altar.
The tears. They burn.
I cannot see.
His trembling voice, trying to project
itself across the silent hall
reminds me of the familiar story
of someone’s silent downfall.
To cry silently,
desperately,
alone,
without-
I swear there was a different route.
I swear.
by Kaia’ati:io Barnes IVA
Dad’s dark brown Eyelashes
always lengthen when he cries.
Those short brave magical Lashes
have never framed so vividly his eyes.
And it pains me worse
than anything warmed by sunlight,
that good people
(as opposed to those who are trying to improve
because no one has done something so wrong as to be considered
worthless)
should lose all motivation and might.
His Eyelashes
should not be forced like so.
his Eyelashes
should not be forced to grow.
I go back to a time
when I was careless, naive, and free,
showing off at my softball game,
because he had come to watch me.
I glance up into the boisterous crowd
discretely
and catch his eye
winking at me
secretively.
I try to hide a smile.
His softball mitt
made of tough leather
so tough
sits in my lap, still as a stone.
I wonder exactly how the mitt might be feeling
now that it, too,
is alone.
I wonder exactly how he had been coping;
how long his Lashes became.
I wonder how to act, what to say, what to do,
why no one will speak his name.
Daddy speaks, still,
tears not yet able to pass the turnstiles of his eyes.
The bravest man I’ve ever known.
He tends not to his own cries
but reaches,
extends himself,
to those who grieve likewise.
Putting on a brave face,
daddy,
is not going to silence those screaming cries.
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