If I let this anger go, where would it go?
If into air, would it fall back
as thunder in the next storm rising?
If into water, who might drink it in?
I cannot bury it in earth, or it could sprout.
A forest of such rage would be too cruel.
It will not burn itself out; smouldering,
it does not flare nor fade. Holding it up
to the light, I cannot tell it from the light.
In the dark, keeping me from sleep,
it whispers loud enough to be heard
but not understood, holds me
like a chill. I want it to be still.
I want to sit and ease its grip
with song, its temper loosened from
belly into lap, all furred, bristling
with glares, but present as a chair,
seen for what it is. The clash of minutes
on a clock. Hope condensing on a knife.
Love divided into want and need.
I would listen to this fury speak
in its own voice, words that hold no
meaning but their being, discover
how it lives and why it came to me.