They say St. Peter cried so hard after his betrayal
that his tears formed two fixed furrows, one down each cheek.
Richard II imagines himself and the loyal Aumerle
weeping until their tears “have fretted us a pair of graves.”
Hamlet compares his own hesitance to a visiting actor’s
show of feigned torment. “What would he do,/
Had he the motive and the cue for passion/
That I have? He would drown the stage with tears . . .”
I wept at your quietus
when what was really demanded
was a decade of barking and moaning.
I should have wailed, whimpered, roared, and shrieked,
rooted my broken heart out of my broken body
and flung it into the seas incarnadine.
Well, people no longer speak
with such high-flown passion
and they rarely grieve in the old-fashioned way,
at least in the suburbs of Boston.
So I’d missed, I thought, the chance
properly to say goodbye.
But here in Recovery Valley
amid the tall green trees,
bears, bobcats, therapists,
and ticks, the real thing sneaks up
on me as I lie on my hard
mattress, once used
by silent monks after
their evening beaker of port.
Grief grips my heart,
hurling out tears till they
raise the sea level of my small room.
Soon, though, it’s all too real
and my own liquid solace,
even a mug or two
of sherry, is nowhere
to be found in this healthy,
duplicitous wasteland.
So much,
I whisper between sobs,
for mindfulness,
so much for social support,
so much for coping skills.
and so much for Shakespeare’s
keening minions.
I still need a bottle, some ice
and a glass to smooth
my journey as the evenings pass.
Alec Solomita is a writer working in Massachusetts. His poetry has appeared in many journals, including Poetica, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Galway Review, The Lake, The Rye Whiskey Review, and several anthologies. His chapbook “Do Not Forsake Me,” was published in 2017 by Finishing Line Press. His full-length poetry book, “Hard To Be a Hero,” was released by Kelsay Books in the spring of 2021. He’s just finished another, “Small Change.”
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