you're young and scrawny
with far too much faith
because you have little else
if something about you can be big it might as well be something good
(you want to be big so desperately that it hurts)
you're not sure you have faith in god.
despite a catholic upbringing
you have faith in your mother, you know that.
your tired and battle-worn mother,
body thin and face drawn
but sarah rogers is unfailingly, unflinchingly kind
(you think you learned strength from her)
(single mother in the great depression, great for a reason,
trying to keep her sickness-ridden kid from dying)
(she bites the dust first)
(you don't know if she'd be proud of you.)
you have faith in bucky barnes, too.
in his uniform, in the rough lines of his face
in his palm in yours,
pulling you from the dirt and trash of the alleyway
not taking the fight from you like s.h.i.e.l.d. did
but taking you from the fight
he trusted you enough to let you fight your battles
and you trusted him enough to save him
you were a soldier
and he was your soldier
you won the war because he lost it, you think
(the only thing you can cling to in the 21st century is being a soldier)
(you miss feeling like you were fighting for freedom)
(you miss knowing what you did was right)
(you miss him)
and when you were tall,
in a new era of white and steel and a new brooklyn
he was the only thing from the time that you belonged in.
he was your anchor.
in death, in life
till the end of the line.
sarah rogers didn't teach you to go back on promises.