you ain’t a poetry, my love
you ain’t written in delicate verses,
too fragile to be spoken out loud
you ain’t any of the fancies
for i know you —

and you?
you ain’t her.
that girl
who was too weak to speak up?
you ain’t her, anymore.

i think your bones
were made in an elsewhere place.

for else i don’t know
what would explain
the inconceivable strength
that makes you, you.

the way you look into the devil’s heart
and do not see there a cemetery or death
instead, you carve your name
on the tombstone of...