Danielle Shontae Smith

On Consoling Men Who Cry

I

When my mother finally left you, she sought space
to unfold, to exhale her held breath — to unbecome
the mother of four who had collapsed into her own body
because she’d had nowhere else to go
She was 50 years old

Even though I had asked for this since before
I even knew the weight of the word “leave”
Even though I knew many of the reasons she finally left you
(because I had kept a running list myself)
Even though I used the phrase Why don’t you just leave him?
so many times it began to feel more familiar
in my mouth than my own first name
I said yes when you called. Asked me to move in with you
Help you with the mortgage

Dad, you were how I learned to say yes to men
who would be practiced in damaging me
But I don’t blame you

II

Here is how you remember your own father: gone
With his passing, a different absence

Dad, here is how I remember you:
The tower of your body,
the great boom of your voice
Your face a malleable square
of facial expressions:
turbulence, rage, fatigue

After Mom was gone:
You, a crumbling edifice
Your face learned grief, regret,
how to be damp with tear water
But I don’t blame you

III

How I was taught papier-mâché:

Step one: Blow up a balloon
Step two: Wet strips of newspaper in liquid starch
Step three: Cover balloon until it no longer is visible
Step four: Allow to dry completely
Step five: Destroy the balloon inside so that all that remains is shell

I always felt sad for the balloon

I’d wonder: Did the balloon know it would be used
for this purpose?

I’d wonder: For what else could this balloon have been used?

I do not recall what age I was when I noticed my mother
began to become the balloon

IV

Woman (noun): a vessel; a receptacle
Love (verb): to render oneself empty for

V

When this man

whom I met in September at a wine bar on Holly Street
whom I hope someday will let me call him Husband
who calls me My Dear and looks at me across candlelight
whom I’ve given the power to manipulate my self-esteem simply
with how frequently he may or may not dial my phone number

When he

is sitting across from me, telling me a story so devastating
that I can almost feel the room collapse under its weight

When he

despite his best efforts, has been betrayed,
yes, by the water gathering at his eyelids,
but more so by the muscles in his face
(and he has tried hard not to break; I can see it)

I think: Go ahead. This is my inheritance
What I am told I am for. What I was made to do
I don’t know why I want to touch the pads of my fingers
to his forearm, hold his hand, but I do

I can intellectualize this right now and wonder
if I am using his pain to have a reason to touch him
I could berate myself for being an opportunist —
for using this as a way to hold his hand for the first time
But I won’t go there today

So I will just sit with my skin on his skin and wonder
if he can feel it, them:
The men who came before him — first you, Dad
Then the Point Guard, The Ranger, The Philosopher
The men I have loved

VI

Here is what I’ve noticed in the faces of men who cry:
They cry just as they’ve been conditioned to live — fight

I see it in you, Dad: the tremulous dance of your facial muscles
(and I wish I knew what muscles they are,
understood the physiology of what is happening
to your face right now, but I don’t. I want so much to
be poetic about this moment, but I can’t,
because I don’t even know the muscles’ names)

I see it in you: you are fighting for control
You don’t want to be softened,
to be threatened by this betrayal
of whom you have been told to be,
especially in front of me — a woman now,
but still your youngest daughter
for whom you have been taught
to be strong, to protect
But I need you to be soft. Show me
Let me see that we are the same inside
We both contain muscles whose names we may never learn

VII

The first time you came to Bellingham, I took you
to Boulevard Park to show you the water
Maybe I told you, maybe I didn’t tell you
that it is my favorite place
I sit on a bench to be present with the water
even though I fear it. The water is a reminder
to breathe, that there is still cause
to keep breathing

I sit and watch the sunsets. The sunsets there linger
with such brilliance that I will risk my own eyesight
just to keep them in my gaze
Looking at you now requires my eyes to recall that boldness
I can see that you are sinking beneath something
What horizon is taking you?

VIII

I want so much to name those muscles in your face
I want to be able to console you in the way you need
I want to know the right thing to do, to say
But I am just as helpless as you are, just as powerless
against this thing, this word, this verb we call “cry”

I don’t blame either one of us
You were taught not to be this vulnerable, and I —
I am supposed to know how to tap into what I am told
is my innate ability to nurture
I guess we both failed today

So I will give you my four fingers pressed to your forearm,
and you can read them however you need

Published in A Map You Cannot Refold on March 27, 2022.