i’ve worn hailstorm and fulgur,
but not until my bark had been
stripped my skin was the
rot known—
and though the touch assiduous,
i was made twisted and recoil,
a dozen rings misshapen from
progenitor misuse—
the ephialtes left me instable,
a witless pulpy thing shivering
as a child might retreat his
glamour of theater—
yet you persist, still,
testament your patience,
the muscle of your kindness,
and reach for me
even as i fold—
that one day i might be
your haptotrope.