what you could never do

Chinese symbols jump like electric shocks
on bamboo paper, a gift from my father: Victory Fireworks,
Ellsworth, Wisconsin. an arch and a glitter,
like lazy young mothers with their red lips parted.
a government-licensed explosives factory in a cornfield town.

these things are easy: single-digit mornings,
running in skirts, prom without a boy in a tux,
telephone calls, tangles of words on a page,
cheap pizza next to a military graveyard
and a garish violin song.
I was called brave once, by a girl who has made other women bleed
on grassy fields in the blinding sunset and inconvenient wind.
I felt like the white at the edge of mall photographs, like early flowers.

look at me at night.
colored sparks and the midwest shriek in my pupils, both.

I cannot embroider a silver thread of romance,
I cannot read speculations of suicide method when I know the truth,
I cannot leave though I want to and I cannot save you,
could not save you,
though I need to. Blurred vision and stumbling footsteps,
fire between my fingers, alluring smiles,
free falls, and faith:
these things are impossible.

I would see the northern lights, the dirty alleys and orange stands
of the world, my anger would be a broken window
instead of a nail in my leg, I would tear down empires,
I would challenge your fathers and your women and your basements
and your skeletons and your God, I would ask the terrible question,
I would cut open my heart with a surgical strike,
I would fight and fight and fight,
and I would pray for you,
if I were able.