It is in the small things we see 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
cover 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.
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Comments
I find it to be an interesting view point.
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,"
I agree that this is a fascinating and true description of courage. Sexton ties together all the smaller acts of courage with the larger acts, classified as "love", and equates them, gives them equal importance and beauty. She emphasizes the individual's role in courage, how it is something one must consciously attempt, rather than something that one already has, ready to be taken out at any notice. The final act of courage, then, is when one faces death, calmly and simply, and one "put on [ones] carpet slippers/and stride out." Courage becomes an act as natural as breathing, that is tied up with literally every stage of our lives.
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