Was Mich Nicht Umbringt, Macht Mich Stärker

My roommate liked to say, “a ‘lude & a half
and 3 shots of vodka, and I’m still here.”
He’d say that whenever
I brought up Nietzsche,
Then I’d challenge him
To buffalo wings and sriracha.
We’d laugh, sweat, and curse,
Too manly to say, “uncle.”

I never told Stu about my father’s harsh love
And fear that his only son
Would be too soft for the world he’d known.
He couldn’t reckon with my breech birth,
Or the funeral arrangements begun
After measles and pneumonia when I was three,
Or being shy and too clumsy
To play football in Razorback country.

Sometimes I try strange hot sauces:
A drop on my palm and a lick:
Live dangerously, and sriracha’s b’come too mild.