The Only Animal That Cries
Nov 20 2020
We are the only animal that cries.
Although rats laugh when they're tickled,
even if it's far too high
for us to hear.
And I could swear my dog smiles,
but am told I merely project,
and that a dog showing her teeth
means beware.
Of course, dust gets in your eye.
And who doesn't tear up
when the sun is bright
the pollen high?
And then the ones who can't recall
when last they did.
The warm salty tang.
The rush of feeling
and lost control.
The exquisite relief,
followed by embarrassment
to have felt so exposed.
A dam breaks
and whole cities are washed away.
So they are made parabolic
to hold the pent-up weight.
And then there are deserts
where all at once it rains;
when the barrens bloom
painting the land,
and rivers rage
scouring out the sand.
If I were only geometric
and could somehow hold back,
not one
to let the current take me
or let my colours show.
Wary
of letting the dam break
the pent-up weight it holds.
After so many years
of staring into the sun,
so many more
it was wet and cold.
A hard rain
I fear might overflow.
By not crying, I of course mean emotional crying. All animals produce tears; but only humans cry.
The New Yorker publishes a series of essays under the heading Personal History. This one appeared in the Nov 16, 2020 edition. Like the author, I was also raised to be stoic, undemonstrative, restrained. She doesn't often cry, and neither do I. Not alone or in public. I can't remember the last time I did. Immediately after reading Yiyun Li's piece, this poem came to me.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2020/11/16/the-ability-to-cry
Here's something that further elaborates on the opening line.
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