Lanky

someone always said to me, "real men are never weak
and never cry, won't cook but will fight.
not a fighter, not a guy."

i saw his unshed tears:
a ghost river in a glass house,
a sea of chains,
lanky shadows blind to the mirror.

i've seen my father throw his voice to the sky
shout down the phone at the incompetent colleague
and an hour later cry.
he cooks more than he fights.

observing, I rejected time's advice
and to fight became for me the finish line,
to cry the melting of the ice.

not that i wouldn't like to be balboa
but i doubt he could ever
ace an exam or see the world or
meet the same beautiful, beautifully
odd people I have.

and i've seen my insides.
something that someone has never seen.