Sticks and Stones Will Scrape Our Bones

It went out and did not come back.
For some of you, dread is not fear
Of your own end, not the bad news
In that sense, but the fear of shame,

That what comes next will make you look
Bad, real bad, a fool, a lost cause,
A name to be said with a snarl
Or a wince and a cringe. Calm down.

The pain of shame is real, is felt
In just the same parts of your brain
As the pains of flames, sick, cold, death.
We know. We won’t make small of you

For that. But we’re that name of yours
And all the clouds of words that smoke
Off it and float from it and trail.
Shame is a name and names. Shame’s us,

Not you. Food is you. And a bed,
Clothes to keep you warm and a bath
If your flesh longs for that. The pain
Of pain is not shame’s pain of dread.

You can’t keep pain out of your head,
But why not carve your name from it?
So long as you have terms for goats,
Let the terms be your goats you burn.