MEN COULD CRY

I used to play with all the other little girls

Outside by the large oak, we’d run until the sun spun

And all we could fathom was laughter

Inside on the table, momma would make us sandwiches

Cut in triangles and squares, made with a special ingredient

Love

I loved my friends, the little girls I used to play with

Pigtails and plaid skirts were the symbols of our childhood—Innocence

Yet, somewhere down the line, running around the oak turned to

Chasing me home with rocks in their hands

The same ones I pinky-promised never to tell the boy down the street I liked him

Some of the most familiar people in my life turned to ash,

leaving burns on my arms

And somehow momma made fewer and fewer special sandwiches

She was too embarrassed to set foot in a world that didn’t accept her

Still, it was poppa whom I felt the worse for

One night I sat on the staircase, overlooking the kitchen

I had never witnessed such a sad scene

Lips turned down, and eyebrows creased so much that I could fold them

My uncle from next door could no longer be friends with a Jew like my father

Said that it would be best to not let the kids call him uncle anymore

One tear made its way down poppa’s cheek

Then another and soon uncle joined in too

I never knew that grown men could cry

But I guess when we’re separated from those that we love,

when the world is torn from our bare hands,

when we’re stripped and left vulnerable begging for mercy,

the only thing we can do is cry and hope someone listens.

JENNYFER LOIZEAU ‘25