Cave Scribbles

I believe in bravery, so I say “cielo” instead of sky,
don’t always ask what’s in a dish before taking the first bite.

My courage cannot be calculated by poets of the epic
and common biographers, which is why you’ll never see

my name listed after “hero.” I’ve never bought a gun. Don’t even know
how to shoot. When I think “murder,” I scream it.

My derring-do is to curse in Sicilian, and I back it up by running away.
You see, when I say “wood,” I am thinking of history,

the old bed that sleeps the whole family, sodden in a song
of Irish linen passed down for generations. That’s what I call “hope,”

and isn’t that really where all bravery lies? Look here, I am the queen
of taking chances—sometimes I even run yellow traffic lights

if no one’s around. I’ve got the grit, the nerve, the mettle to say “tragedy”
and actually mean “a little bit of stress that’s making me snappish.”

You want gallantry? Watch me fearlessly whisper “love” over and over
in public places and never blush. More? You want insane boldness?

Look—I am stout-hearted enough to believe that horrors can be ended,
wrongs can be righted, and when I say “peace” it’s what I mean to say.

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