a word i am owed

the yellow angels of my underfeet, these little golems
little fishy mimics little gilled wisps
promise “I am upright I am straight-backed,” tell me
rest grow rest grow rest hunch less
little loves little prayers
alive as my own whims they are granted
and so
I take their smoke on faith of fog and burn
I deliver each a name in turn:
patience pain filth forgiveness youth and yearn
a rounding into the self I wove away from,
hurts of sturdy history gathered as thin strands to shred
instead
in bold fabric I blazon a song to my own
tingling roots,
notes to rattle each cell loose
cadence is that
you?
or a frequency beneath it something fearful something
rotten, no
you
are wrought from all, you
are a word I am owed