Fist and Palm
There are plenty who’d hardly
recognize me now, I used to be
that cruel, by which I mean
I was frightened mostly,
and now I’m mostly not. Joy,
if only flickeringly, each day
astounds me, the man I used to be
dismounts, relents for a bit,
before digging
his boots (streaked
with longing, my own
longing, what I can’t help) hard into
my sides again, into the man
I’ve become, his way of reminding me
we’ve only stopped for rest,
a short rest,
some water, we’ve
years to go, still, he has
his job,
I have mine. Speechlessness
is not an option, he whispers
into my ear, he spits
on the words themselves after,
as if to make them stay,
or just to make sure
I’m listening, but I’m always
listening, as I always obey: isn’t this
obedience, these songs I’ve
built from things too difficult
to speak of?
