I do it for a happy–cry, I do it when I have to: when the knot under my chest bone feels like it will spew up my throat and dollop – splat – onto the floor, my mouth still open from the appearance of this mysterious belly-knot that’s been rooted behind my breasts. I cry when no conclusions are made - boney shuttering shoulders and lonely back porch to spill onto. My hands are over my eyes, holding them in, face in sin…red blotches and runny eyeliner. The mourning that bellows from my lips, rises uncontrolled in upward sifts, as God culls my rueful song waves upward with weary sailor arms.