A lone tear 

fills my eye

but it’s not a tear 

my own.

Its source is 

not my sorrow, 

not my joy, 

not onions, wind, 

or a dry malady 

of the eye. 

Then where does 

it come from,

this lone tear that 

fills my eye?

Is it for the ribs 

I chose to unsee

when her baby fingers 

begged to eat?

Or for the girl 

with dreams of gold

while in our house 

her mother sweeps?

Does the tear 

fill my eye

for the insects 

I have trampled 

under my blind 

human feet,

or the animals 

that for many years 

without remorse 

I chose to eat?

Is my tear 

a longing of 

a longing heart

or the tear 

still stored 

from the first 

loss of love?

Or perhaps 

it fills my eye 

for her, who 

stabbed herself 

with the sharp 

knife of words?

Or the lover who 

turned love to ash

with his burning

cigarette of salvation?

The lone tear 

spills to the earth

to lose itself

and I wonder

where it came from

and to where 

was it bound.

Goodbye, lone tear,

you were mine

yet not my own.

4 thoughts on “A Lone Tear

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