My students are threatening to re-name our poetry class “Crying Class.”
Last week we graduated from subtle swiping of tears to all out sobbing. The girls make a big show afterward of complaining about how they hate to cry, especially in public.
I, of course, launch into a lecture about how cryng is good and strong and how we have to learn to love our tears.
“Yeah, yeah,” one girl complains. “But the real problem is it’s messing up my mascara.”
That, my dear, is the price we poets pay.