By the Throat

I accept the worst
and still expect the best.
But the lukewarm
I will spit from my mouth—
not one tepid second
as I take the future by the throat
and let it choke on my refusal.

The future will come.
But my patience is not ash;
I will not swallow it quietly.
I will not bow to delay again.

What I was warned of has learned my name.
I press myself into what will be
and force it to answer.
Let what comes next be clean and unbroken.
I will not soften—I have carried fire in my bones
longer than most widows know how to mourn.