(originally published here in The Commonline Journal)
Whatever you were seems more than you have become,
but what you lost was dead weight.
A block of wood, hacked, hewn and beaten
carved and cut down smooth and lithe,
Fat from muscle, claw-torn and eaten.
Will tempered in a wicked womb, writhe
and kick, wander-sick and birth-zealous.
Curiosity choked, hand-bitten and fires
stoked, in a small heart, strong of beat and freedom-jealous.
A slow, scarred shell shed – an old voice retires.
A core burns closer to open air, eyes squint to sun,
nostrils flare and tears run,
blood flows, and you’re the only one
with your hands on the wheel now…