Iron 

 

I refuse to think about waking

about waking to something changed overnight

The fact is

 

I can’t write anything into difference

I can’t

I won’t

I refuse to pen myself to

an even-ness of spirit;

to write, to 

rein in my troublesome heart

my heart, always running where it should not

my heart thundering down the street,

sweat-streaked

biting on the bit.

My heart never learned to hide itself

my heart, always a spectacle, running down the street,

noisy

annoying

distasteful

making heads turn, shake, look away.

 

What would I change, overnight?

My heart, that I love as I have to? As I must?

My heart that torments me, I shake my own head

my heart, which I lead with, always

trying and trying and trying again

to go slow -

is it a canter?

My heart - is it trotting? A walk? A saunter?

 

My heart is my heart

I am too old to change it

too old to hide it, to obfuscate, conceal

biting on that bit

I am always sweating

clattering, shod with iron,

writing and writing and refusing to learn

to hold the bit easy

to trot

to walk.