At work, folks ask me “Is that Stephen with a ‘V’?” As they stare into my reflective gold enameled nametag spelling “Stephen” with the “ph” that’s been mine from birth. I dumb-smile nod and spit out the coinslot response they’re asking for, “no, it’s ‘PH’ like the Saint.”
Of course, St. Stephen is sainted for being the first of the martyrs, for being the first who’d die for the idea. And I get a little chuckle knowing that if anything takes me from this world, it’ll be the me. Either the way I eat, live, or the thundercloud headaches I get, when the hope gets graycast-fuzzed and broken.
And the long grip’s made those bitter-brittle fingers.
But hold on, love, calm down.
Deep breaths.
step back. foot to foot.
I’m wall dropped and honest here, but that’s a trust,
‘cause when I say I’m drop-tired and burn-bent,
I mean it, but the fact that I’m telling means I’m fighting still.
Don’t hell me still with that take-it-all save.
that scorched earth solution.