Iron( poem) by Elizabeth Acevedo

And although I am a poet, I am not the bullet

I will not heat-seak the soft points

I am not the coroner who will graze her hand

Over naked knees.Who will swish her fingers

In the mouth. Who will flip the body over, her eye a hook

Fishing for government-issued lead.

I am not the sidewalk, which is unsurprised

As another cheek scrapes harsh against it.

Although I too enjoy soft palms on me;

Enjoy when he rests on my body with a hard breath;

I have clasped this man inside me and released him again and again

Listening to him die thousands of little deaths.

What is a good metaphor for a woman who loves in a time like this?

I am no scalpel or high thread sheet count. Not a gavel, or hand painted teacup.

I am neither. Nor romance by street lamp nor candelight;

My hands are not an iron, but look, they’re hot, look

How I place them in love on his skin

And still be able to unwrinkle his spine.

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