Anger is the word that lives behind the door
that remains closed – a stain of outrage
seeps under and rises up as I wipe it
with cloths of protest and activism
hope, poetry and determination – but
Anger stays behind the door – they
tell me, tell me, tell me, that to live without
anger is impossible, disingenuous,
sanctimonious, even a blatant lie, and yet…
Anger is the word that lives behind the door, as
I stand on the other side - aware of its possibility
skeptical of its productivity when outrage and
action, reflection, and when possible - reconciliation
wave bright banners of hope and possibility as anger
silently broods, stews, festers, contained and unneeded.
For I do know that anger holds its finger ever on a trigger –
grasps the shaft of a shiv – for anger is blind, dumb and active
Let anger stay behind the door – let it bang its empty blinded
head against the walls until it distills its fetid blood to useful outrage,
and then, and then, - I shall take those clean cloths of hope and
wipe and wipe and wipe
what I can clean, aware when to enlist
help when all that -is -
is just too much to bear
alone.
