I was hoping
to make you cry
with all the images
that follow.
Not because I’m
mean, heartless, one who
seems to revel
in the sadness of another,
but the ageless tropes
which burn
whenever an artist’s
on their game—
be they playwright
or a poet, a master
of brush or stone.
I want to convey
the kind of love
remembered in
Old Yeller,
when death is just
a single shot away,
from a rifle
that is held
in trembling arms,
its water-from-the-
eyes you can’t forget,
aware that even a
grossly funny tramp
can turn the tables,
bring about a flow
from a flower girl,
and if these
won’t do the trick, I’ll
poach a recollection
that will sear, a picture
I could never
unsee,
hid in a sheltered
closet while I wept :
the man who
rocks his mother
in a chair, in Munsch’s
Love You Forever,
embraced like a Velveteen
Rabbit, or a cat
that’s lost in an alley,
in a moment of deluge,
when you can’t
tell the tears
from the rain,
Hepburn’s mascara
running
like a river 'neath the moon,
when there’s nothing
left to absorb
its cleansing surge,
its overflow of
fervour,
so smitten with
its empathy
I promise
we will wail.
Andreas Gripp
November 21, 2024
RF Image
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