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,
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