Jennifer Collins
Modern Tears

I softly assure her again
that cats are meant
to be afraid of water,
but perhaps her tail is tired
or especially dusty today,
for she drags it still, languidly
along the top of the bathwater,
slowing it to rest beside my knee,
watching me
with soft bronze eyes.

I ignore her,
allow her to watch
me as she likes,
for this is the time of day
I worship at,
lounging in water
with a stranger’s words
to daydream me out of worry,
damp fingerprints occasionally
marking my progress at page corners.

I drip fake tears into my tired eyes
when they begin to strain or sting,
my glasses never having followed me
into the bath,
and I watch the cat’s eyes
gleaming,
no need for false tears.
They track my hands,
whitened with soap,
and I try to keep the lather
away from her still drifting tail.
I remember not ever needing
fake tears or extra moisture.
I remember simply crying,
quiet and innocent tears,
when my eyes had dried
past comfort.
I remember not being afraid
to cry, for myself, for others.

The cat’s eyes set wetly on me,
moist without fear or regret,
and I wonder that I’m so afraid to show
eyes such as hers,
beautiful and moist and expressive
and wet with thought,
and interpretation,
eyes that welcome emotion.

I drip from the bathtub
as her tail follows
the water level down,
and I carry away from her
my book of daydreams,
my towel of modesty, my fake tears;
I tell myself as I dry
that tomorrow I might
try to remember
how to not be afraid to cry.

<< return to the Table of Contents for New Series #5: Summer 2018, Volume 3 Number 1