The Tempering

The water is hot enough to turn my knuckles red.

I’m scraping at the cheese that’s fused into the tin.

I’m thinking of the things that the old woman said,

about the way the world tries to wear you thin.

The scouring pad is shedding its green, abrasive skin,

turning into yellow foam beneath my heavy grip.

She told me steel gets harder the more the hammer’s in,

and you only break the moment that you let the rhythm slip.

I used to think she meant we had to learn to take a blow,

to stand there like a statue while the fire burned our feet.

But now I feel the temper in the parts of me that grow,

the way the metal toughens just to handle all the heat.