Growing older, I've awoken

    to hot terrors all around,

and the bright grace

I knew when younger

    is less easily found.

I've learned:

the realm of my heart

    is treacherous ground:

a battlefield

    of aches,

    sunken bullets,

    and bones,

covered with half-light dust —

    the decay of my soul.

I've learned:

every idol dies,

    and we cling

    to their bleach-white bones.

So now,

    woman,

I pant with tortured lung,

bearing wounds I no longer want,

and I begin to rest my starving eyes upon you,

and turn back

    to ask:

If I peel away my dying shirt

    and the sweat stays

    like stubborn waste;

if I am speckled brown

    with muddy earth,

    with soil stamped in my face;

if I come again

    (but cold and broken-limbed,)

    will you still remember us

        and care

    to bear my name?