(or “You’re so much prettier when you’re frail…”)
Photo by Andalucía Andaluía on Unsplash
You carried me
til I was strong
never admitting
you were tired
even as your sweat poured between my breasts.
I thanked you
by growing fierce…
borrowing your strength,
always promising
to pay you back.
And when my legs
were mighty again,
ready for running
and reached for ground…
and my arms were sinewy and lean
and powerful enough to hold the world —
including yours…
And I wanted to lift you up
while you recovered
from your giving…
Because
you now were crumbling
Because
time for being held was yours…
It was then
you stumbled away
as if needless
as if lions never sleep
as if hearty heroines embarrassed you…
though I saw your sweat had turned to tears
and you wobbled as you went.
Still a prince, perhaps,
but much less a man to me.