Folded arms hold her head
The weight of 62 years thunders in her ears.
Hands with vein rivers cascading into wrists,
Always carry air clenched tight against her palms.
Silent mouth rests easy,
Startled by her own tears.

Most of the time she hids tears
Like Christmas presents stored inside her head.
They aren’t accessable like drawers, it’s just not that easy,
Like convincing her that on her 57th birthday she should pierce her ears.
Nothing in excess. Nothing she can’t rationalize to the holes of his palms.
Nothing she can’t hide, like the bones of my wrists.

Nothing she can’t wrap up tight like the bones of my wrists.
Nothing. No tears.
On Sundays we would hold our hands to heaven, open palms.
It always made her proud and she would kiss my head.
Now that I can’t hear the gospel, now that I have deaf ears,
It’s not that easy.

I don’t think anyone ever told me and certainly not her that it would be easy
Growing into a self can certainly damage delicate wrists.
Turn a deaf ear
And it will become so simple not to shed tears.
You can numb the innerworkings of your head
And rest against tired palms.

But, if you’re not careful they will cave, those palms
And it will not be easy
To clean up that mess while keeping a straight head.
Bang wrists
Like pots and pans shedding dishwater tears
Maybe it is more simple to have open ears,

Pierced ears,
Ears that can support open palms
Without having to hide tears
Like they are shameful, maybe it is easy,
Maybe you can tape bone together to make strong wrists
And maybe you don’t have to fold arms to hide your head.

Maybe, open ears sing easy
And strong wrists cradle palms
And tears are words humming in the head.