I twilled, breath baking in the chatter-slick fog:
Chicago heaves its industrial arms up,
knees trembling under an immeasurable mass--

Your scars run down the length of your spine,
History runs its bloody course,
shuddering down muscled skin.

Your bulk, was that of a child swinging her bruised legs
underneath an uneven desk, in a classroom with 38 other students.

She doesn't know how to read the history books about you,
but she likes beating up the boys in your Backyard.

One day, when her neck grows long, legs more than stumps,
and her back curves up as it does,
Breasts pushing out of her worn shirt,
those boys will hold her, quiet protests muffled against chest,
She will accept the cold, crumpled dollar bills,
pull up her jeans, and stumble out of the car.

She does not cry.

You love her, as you are a City, so magnificent in its Glory:
pull her close to you,
and Kiss Her, as you would, on her forehead, her cheeks, her lips.

You taught her to fight;
How will she Love?