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?