Tank

Her eyes swell up like
a broken limb, filled to
the brim with tears as hot
as boiling water, and it's
as if she hasn't cried in
years, and knowing her,
it very well maybe be the
case.

She shoots me a glance
in the hopes of striking
me dead, but I give her
a look of pity and regard,
extinguishing her hatred.
I remark on how similar she
looks to her father, nearly
identical.

Her sobs grow silent
and her eyes stare blankly,
she doesn't move her head,
doesn't dare crane her neck
to see me reach around,
for a tissue from the second pew
to desperately catch the
tears.

We've come for a funeral,
but I don't cry for the dead.