They play on the base of his tongue
On the edge of his eyes
On the tips of his drumming fingers
Many a time he tries to get them out
But every time,
Something or the other stops him
Sometimes its the memory
Of his uncle telling him
What a fine big boy he was and
How big boys don't cry
Sometimes of the girl
Spitting out as she left
To stop crying like a girl
And most of all
Of his father
Biting back his bitter words
To let out a smooth flow
Of reassurances
And of his mother
And everyone else's mother
Admiring him
For being
The calm man who could
Take care of everything
He wipes the half a drop of tear
Beginning to form at the edge
He curls his fingers
Into a tight fist
And the words?
He swallows them whole
The silence of a storm
That has imploded upon itself
Is often inaudible.
But once you hear it,
It is stunning
The silence
In the hunched shoulders
In the half-glance
That looks and then looks away
In those impatient, impatient fingers
That will never again stop drumming
On any flat surface they will come across
How many stories they would tell
If only they were held
Until they calmed down
The sound of that silence
Is absolutely defeaning
Once you hear it,
There is no way you can unhear it
The loudness of it makes me wonder
If men are the truly oppressed species
At least my stories
Are greeted with hugs, not jeers
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