When I Be that I may Cease to Fear

Who snipped the tips of my nerves, left me
finally able to stare wifey eyes or others down without apologies?
Is wholly weak and wormy me—
no apple home good enough nor sweet, but them books,
their bindings hard, pointed, no talkback, no fleshy curves
in unsure aging hands.

I keep bend-breaking at my weakest spots, snapped
brittle as habit—give in, relent, there’ll be quiet soon
alone to brood,
no nagging or nit-picking guilt trips for little ease.
Tears persist and sobbing, and the wrenching question,
‘Don’t you love?’

No more at whimsy and wish of fears, some savage divorce
and broken home—proverbial gutters off the siding,
young sweetface the product of…
and I, another me, nerveless alone, posterboy of stoicism,
flashing unchecked hubris like dry lightning
without one care.