it is heartache

romanticized without love,

idealized and warped from neglect—

wrought from thick banded iron

(and yesterday’s mistakes, sweet)

 

it is stone,

calcified bone and weighty flesh,

a leaden mind with flint-spark scars

that look marvelous in the right light

(they are wounds of war, dear one)

 

it is salve

slathered to heal life’s cruelty,

pungent as bracken bog water

laced with sickly ambrosia

(don’t you see it’s killing you?)

 

it is plague

it is shadow

it is companion

it is friend

it is partner, good and ill,

daily struggle and daily rest

(for as long as it takes

for me to be whole)