Poems and Poetry

Post-Op | A Poem by William Zink

I wept outside the room,
standing there with your sisters waiting for
the nurses to put you on the bed.
I heard your voice—
there was banter—from you, not
only them—as though you were
having coffee at the end of a
walk through the mall.
I wept, clenching my fist, waiting to see you.
I wept, my chest and shoulders being
pricked with little barbs of life.
We don’t weep enough anymore.
For black or white, our tears must
be squeezed as juice from parched lemons.
Rather, let’s cry about the sun,
the moon, the clouds, the wind.
We’ll weep for our hunger, our fortune,
our fears, and our contented hearts.
Let’s forget who we are and become
what we must!
Not to devour the world,
but to ride the waves as they reach us.

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