Men Don't Cry

"Yellow on the river,

Golden in my eyes."

"And what is this about?" a low voice growled, slapping a newspaper down on the table.

The boy at the table, slim by all measures and sickly by others, quietly folded his hands in his lap. The yellow light made the room jaundiced, like his father's skin when he got too angry.

"It's a poem."

A lion's paw of a hand cracked across his face.

"I'm not stupid, boy, I can see what it is. What I wanna know is why my son's name is on such a sissy piece of shit."

"Delicate like untouched skin,

Bold as sunlight, as a kiss."

Damien fiddled with the thin, fraying edge of his dark grey sweater.

"Answer me!" his father shouted.

The thick hand fisted into his collar and yanked him up hard, leaving his polished dress shoes to scuff across the pale linoleum.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he whimpered. "There was a daisy on the river. I thought it looked pretty."

"Lovely in the water,

Prettier on his lips."

"So you thought it alright to prance your prissy ass all across the page like this?" He rubbed the print across Damien's face, smearing ink across his skin as though he were a dog in need of training. "That's my name up there, boy. And no son of mine is going to...to shit all over my legacy like this."

"It was supposed to be anonymous," Damien whispered, his scared breath puffing out quickly.

His father stopped.

The paper fell to the floor, discarded and forgotten.

"You knew I wouldn't approve," the man snarled. The snap of his pocketknife widened Damien's eyes.

"No. Please. Please."

"You beg like a whore," his father whispered. "Loud, with tears on your face."

A breeze, warm and humid from the southern summer, blew in through the screened window. The tears on his cheeks cooled as his eyes widened.

Men didn't cry.

"A romantic world lives downstream.

How I wish to follow the flower."

Another crack against his cheek, this time hitting with less precision and splitting his lip. The knife followed, cutting a shallow mark across his face as he pulled away.

"Get out."

Damien hit the ground hard as his father dropped him. Muddied boots stomped closer, stopping just below his chin. His wallet hit the ground between the boots.

"Go follow your stupid flower."