The Anvil Will FallMy mamma's first love was a vile ex-marine. But the blood and guts in her heart could have washed Pilate's hands clean. Her lips were like an anvil, dropped from a cliff. The fall had almost killed him, and the that anvil hit.
Your father's love was like a lantern lit on a brave dark ship. And my love was like the sea surging for one taste of his wick. And today, your thirteenth birthday, I can see, through these tears, that, my son, you'll be a soldier before five more years. Then your love will be the lantern that guides your ship through night. Don't forget the sea loves the soldier whose not afraid to die.
My mamma told me, when I was fresh from the womb: boy, you'll be a soldier, judging by the size of my wound.
Your love is like an anvil: cold and black as the earth. My love is like the hammer: forging shapes of new life on your curves.