after Gwendolyn Brooksí ìOld Maryî

If you examine the embers of my
life, they will be burned to the last.
If anything is worth loving, defense
rings its resonant siren. Weaponry is
an option that boldly blacksmiths the
tender, blooming sprout of the present. 

I seek methods to fortify a steely tense
because the heart requires smelting. It
wavers in the hungry yellow tongues, little
strong licks of heat that echo so many hurts.

I cannot deny what rocked and kept me,
what once made me feel safe, gone now
óashes, dust, burned, singed, blown to
a language that wind and soil must know.

This wild whisper runs inside me, and I
must answer it or the rustling of skin shall
molt away what is left.  I will never, I will not
allow myself to live half a life, so I must go.