And yet I wear caution like a uniform
now, pulling myself into its rough sleeves
and old boots each morning
before I even think of coffee or how
the me who returns to this bed will not be
the me who left it. There is no flag,
mark, pattern or pin I can carry to convince
a person of what I will or will not do,
who I love or what I care about.
If I am kind, I must prove it by risking
kindness. I ration false comfort by knowing
it has never not been this way:
each day armed with infinite opportunities
to fail, and the chance of failure’s alternative
always racked like an ordinary bullet
within tens of thousands of identical seconds.
Wherever I go, I cling to my hope
like a weapon I have been trained to love.