ISSUE: Spring 1998
Cry me a river
that runs to a sea
of tears. Such pop-song idioms
sop your grief in too much
salty gravy; it’s understatement
to call them hyperbole. Besides! The water
is warm and the body buoyant
in its rocking arms. Where it’s cold
and windy is on the shiver-, gasp-,
the toe-clutch-precipice
above that ocean—a good cry
wedged in your throat, and, could you
find your voice, you’d beg,
you’d beg to fall.
that runs to a sea
of tears. Such pop-song idioms
sop your grief in too much
salty gravy; it’s understatement
to call them hyperbole. Besides! The water
is warm and the body buoyant
in its rocking arms. Where it’s cold
and windy is on the shiver-, gasp-,
the toe-clutch-precipice
above that ocean—a good cry
wedged in your throat, and, could you
find your voice, you’d beg,
you’d beg to fall.
