My Father Told Me

Wayne Stellini

Be a man, she said
on the other end of
a pointing, taunting
finger,

encouraged by laughter
and mockery of the
depleting soul on his
knees.

As the unwanted vulturous
audience circled,
he broke through the heckling
ring,

and with a mighty paw,
lifted me from purgatory
and into the calm of the
light.

The warmth of his hold
signalled my rebirth.
I believed him when, with blistered
fingers

and creviced skin
absorbing my tears,
he said that it was okay to
cry.

Scratched palms and scabby knees,
my father told me,
give us strength, and tears keep us
human.

Be a man,
she continues to say.
And I look at my open hands for my
reply.