No Limit To Tears

Powerful, the cry of anguish.
Happens at the end of your rope.
That heaving, full-moon cry,
the howl of a wounded animal.

After Death has taken another,
the scythe merciless and swift…
or sometimes wielding a precise,
torturous scalpel.

When Death strangled Mom, my tears
fell faster than ducts could release them;
my head filled with salt water,
clogging my brain, my mind.

Tears poured forth in a torrent,
flooding the room.
I floated in that pool for hours until,
gut-sore, I was washed back to my room.

© 2011 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

For We Write Poems (Take it to the Limit), and Poets United.