My bones are the origin of small raging fires
Sparking violence, body against body,
Like any garden trying to survive among
Deadliness.

My atoms are weeds pitted against flower
And bloom
Of myself.

Pain hushed into embers,
Sometimes –
As wide and endless as a mouth to hell.

I have died many times,
Intimately, unforgivingly and unfairly.
I trace all the injustices of myself as a map
To forgiveness.

My fires see no end,
The shadows even
Cast a kind of brilliance.