tip of the bomb



Enlighten my load.

Let it transcend the need for my back and my legs.

Mercy, I beg;

      splash nectarines on the teeth of the famine in my belly -

      hand swords of gold to the armies of my shoulders -

      swaddle my feet from the frost -

      pay the cost of the freight of my dreams.

See them through -

      when I am too weak to open an eye,

      and too beaten to swing

      these fists unfit for prayer.