Honor
A beautiful word, like sex
on stick and bears no guilt,
is the sure epitome of
my blood and not of my belly
Not to omit the brevity
of its syllable, oft sounding on
my breath, I till it not only
when spring comes, but in winter too
Those who care and speak
what they think of
my epitome makes me breathe
life’s expectation easier
I supervise that it sways elegantly,
not to impress my ego, nor to roughen lives,
but to comfort palms with skin, oh like mine,
keeled by handshakes of psychotropic war
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