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The Crying Game
When I was little,
I would make myself cry
by pinching my palm
and repeating silently
Jesus died on the cross.
I soon realized that it was the pain
and not empathy
that brought tears to my eyes.
I would clench my fists
behind my back and
will the quiver of a lip
or a small heartfelt sob.
I was a girl of good volume
and copious water-works
who didn’t mind indulging in drama.
It’s how I played at remorse
to parents and friends.
Now I’m unprepared and sensitive
and must stay away
from card shops, choirs of children
and my daughter’s first pair
of size one triple A’s,
if I’m to remain dry-eyed on ice.
I’m a lapsed hard-edged girl
nodding brightly
at good news
like a park pigeon bobbing
over popcorn strewn grass.
Judith Neale Judith Neale was brought up on Vancouver Island and is a trained Mezzo-Soprano and poet.
She says, “My poems are like snapshots appearing on the page. They give a brief but intense look at love, sex, relationships,
nature and desire. I prefer to keep my poems short to better capture the moments and images that are
constantly filtering through my brain. With the belief that in brevity lies power, I like to start with
a larger version of a poem and whittle it down to its essential self.”
Email: Judith Neale
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