Courage ~ Anne Sexton

Courage
 

 Anne Sexton
 

 It is in the small things we see it.
 The child's first step, 
 as awesome as an earthquake.
 The first time you rode a bike, 
 wallowing up the sidewalk.
 The first spanking when your heart
 went on a journey all alone.
 When they called you crybaby
 or poor or fatty or crazy
 and made you into an alien, 
 you drank their acid
 and concealed it.

 Later, 
 if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
 you did not do it with a banner, 
 you did it with only a hat to
 comver your heart.
 You did not fondle the weakness inside you
 though it was there.
 Your courage was a small coal
 that you kept swallowing.
 If your buddy saved you
 and died himself in so doing, 
 then his courage was not courage, 
 it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.
 
 Later, 
 if you have endured a great despair, 
 then you did it alone, 
 getting a transfusion from the fire, 
 picking the scabs off your heart, 
 then wringing it out like a sock.
 Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow, 
 you gave it a back rub
 and then you covered it with a blanket
 and after it had slept a while
 it woke to the wings of the roses
 and was transformed.
 
 Later, 
 when you face old age and its natural conclusion
 your courage will still be shown in the little ways, 
 each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen, 
 those you love will live in a fever of love, 
 and you'll bargain with the calendar
 and at the last moment
 when death opens the back door
 you'll put on your carpet slippers
 and stride out.