in the dense thickness of the fight,
the miles behind me and ahead,
I carry my absent father
the way a horse carries autumn.
I want to be a library for the dead,
a place where forgotten names
can still find a shelf.
I want to hold every ghost
that made me who I am,
every wound,
every unanswered letter.
The storm has left its mark.
I am not untouched.
I am blackened by lightning,
but I am still standing,
still carrying
what came before me.