Today I cry at the end of a movie,
first time I’ve cried since the war,
and it comes to me how
our tough little mother
always cried during movies,
how we boys laughed at her
as we pointed and smirked,
“Hey, look!
Mommy’s crying again!”,
and wouldn’t leave her be,
a woman who taught us how
to fight: a knee in the groin,
uppercut to the face,
laughing with us even
as she cried at the end
of the sad scenes
We couldn’t know, could we,
why she was crying, if she cried
because we were still boys,
if she was crying for the characters
in the movies, about herself,
about our lives, about life itself
And yet I cry too at the end of movies
with nothing in them about me,
anything I’ve done, anyone
I’ve loved or lost, expressions
on actor’s faces, in their eyes,
the anguish of their voices,
violins revealing their pain,
trumpets of glory sounding
victory over cruel injustice
Just crying, that’s all,
with nothing to explain