Think gladiolus: not the loud flower flaunting
its frilled petals: bee-worthy, beguiling. Not

the armful of flagrant blaze, but that interior
sword-lily, our hardy armor, pale bone shield

buttressed by clavicle and rib, our tender heart’s
defense—manubrium, gladiolus, xiphoid process— 

Greek and Latin names for handle, body, sword-
tip. O valiant breastbone, anchor for our ribs’

bony branches as they lace up the pierced cage
that guards us against injury, buffers our so-

vulnerable organ against accident (steering-wheel’s
wild lunge, oak branch’s blunt spear, some stop

sign hurled from hurricane or heaven). Let us
honor the body’s gladiator, our sturdy buckler

as we cocky ever-adolescents whim and wing
from rock to ripple, daring disaster. Praise each

our humble breast-bone, sternum, gladiolus,
whatever name we give it—our best defense,

our bulwark, our necessary intercessor.