My Mother Called Me “The Faucet”
by Joan Leotta
Salty water spilled down my cheeks
and my nose reddened often by
tangled emotions, a heart quite
easily shattered by hard words,
imagined slights, sadnesses I saw
in others but could not cure.
My mother called me “the faucet”
Or simply pretended to ignore my outpouring
of watery emotion though her
words or ignoring me,
made me cry all the more.
Finally, after realizing
her “tough love” strategy was
not having the desired effect,
she explained her “naming, teasing”
was not meant to cause more pain.
“You see,” she explained, “you cannot
cry aloud so easily.
You simply cannot let ‘them’ know
they’ve cut the strings of your inner
music—no matter who
‘they’ is. They will see your tears
as weakness, not the wonderful
tenderness it truly is.
Hold back my little love.
Do not let your sorrow flow freely
out on the world’s stage, in front of strangers.
Save the tears for those you trust,
those who will value your sorrow
as an opening to your inner self.
Use the sorrow, the tears kept
Inside as a magic elixir to fight
Those who prey on you and others.
Turn your sorrow into action in front of them.”
I learned to control the “faucet.”
Tears became a hidden river,
powering a flood of action
for justice, for myself and others,
to action to defend myself with logic
to release the flow only in the presence
of those who love me.
Even now when I feel my old eyes
holding back a tidal wave of tears,
I remember and act on my mother’s admonition.
However, though I wonder now
what she was holding deep inside,
she who never cried in front of anyone,
that I saw, and how she had learned,
likely by experience, the hard lesson she
sought to teach me through words,
but I never asked her.
I wish I had asked her, and then said,
“Mama, you can cry in front of me.
I will always love you.”
PAINTING: Soul and Tears by Laurel Burch.
AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: This photo is of my mother and me early in 1990s. I chose it because I’m wearing the dress my daughter says she “sees” me in when she thinks of me and my dear mother loved that checked suit she is wearing. I think the photo may have been snapped on Mother’s Day in 1990 or 1991.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Joan Leotta is a writer and story performer who has always loved her mother very deeply. Joan’s poems, essays, books, and articles have appeared in many journals, including Silver Birch Press, The Ekphrastic Review, One Art, McQueen’s Quinterly, and others. She has been nominated twice for Best of the Net and for the Pushcart Prize. While her website is in the process of being redone, you can find her latest escapades, including news about her peformances as Louisa May Alcott, on her Facebook page. On X, she is @joanleottawrite. Her latest collection of poems, Feathers on Stone is available from Main Street Rag.
Silver Birch Press 
Oh, dear poet … such tenderness and love in your words, and in hers. And your ending made my heart pound. Wonderful poem.
That’s beautiful, Joan.
Such depth of experience inviting your reader to step in, Joan! …what your mother must have faced in a turbulent world…. …and, as an easy crier myself, wise words from your loving mother. Beautifully written, indeed!
Joan, I love the way you are able to capture fleeting moments and turn them into deeply moving lessons.
Paula