/ Tear

— Eric Yip

On a bench in the laundromat, I see him
slumped, sobbing, his back reflected

in the washer’s porthole. Inside the machine,
a deep, irregular whirr, the metal drum

tossing loose socks, shirts, invisible limbs.
Never have I seen a man break

so completely, as if a vast crevasse
had unzipped his life. Later, hauling

a warm bag of clothes up uneven flights,
I recall my father’s woolly voice,

our last meal together, the ceiling fan
chopping light above us, when he asked

if I would ever forgive him, how slowly
he took off his glasses and wept.

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