COMBAT LOVE

Combat love,
Steel your breast against its call,
You won’t be able to resist it if you are soft,
You won’t be able to resist it at all.

I met a man as cold as a knife;
But he stood on sentiment and sorrow
Horrified that one slip
And he’d be a puddle tomorrow.

Sorrow is not like love,
Sorrow is OK.
Be a child now
As you were one yesterday.

I was once a child
Who threw a great big fit,
And when I got older
I became a poet.

Am I in this poem?
Who shapes my speech?
Is Rae Armantrout close to me
Or too far out of reach?

Who will I be when I leave this poem?
Am I a poet now?
How will I speak when I leave this poem?
Can anyone tell me how?

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