What gave you the impression I was weak?
Is it my two streams of tears flowing, my lamenting, what?
Don’t you know, you should know, the weak don’t cry,
Not the truly weak, they refuse to feel pain, they refuse to even try to feel pain.
The strong go down into it, they just soak it up.
You think the coal’s heat died down and that’s why I can take it?
You should know the strong have learned to let it in all over, surface ratio dispersing it into warmth instead of searing blisters.
So my little finger takes it’s lumps at the loss, so does my eyes
— Takes lashes, my full back, the patella, the olecranon process,
the bursa sacks, and the invisible wings I’ve earned:
To float above it all, but also to swoop down through the flames,
when poetry needs me.