if i am hard where i should be soft,
iron ore where i would be pious and pliable,
something fierce when i should be gentle—
if i am granite firm, if i am pulsing with
volcanic emotions these days then
i do not know where to place the blame.
years of being poor, of being accustomed
to saving nickels and rolling dimes,
or the nights of being woken up by
loud cracks of noise, the ricochets
off brick walls, convincing myself it was
firecrackers, backfiring engines.
what is there to be afraid of now,
but death on a larger scale?
or fear on a larger scale, fear that
crawls inside bones and harvests blood,
fear that infests my belly and heart,
fear that makes me infertile, denies me
dreams and passion and depth.
if my spirit grates where it used to run smooth,
if my words are coarse where once
i might have offered sweetness, softness,
i am not wrong in deciding that the only
corrective course is love, and home.