|
| |
Born to Rage
I woke with blood in my mouth
and no memory
of the scab that sealed the rasure.
I’m cat-spitting
dog-growling
peregrine-divebombing
rooster-flogging
badger-flipping
hornet-stinging
wolverine-ripping mad.
I fired the sun for showing up late
cursed the fridge light until
yogurt soured in terror.
God called
I let it ring twice.
The therapist said breathe
so I swallowed my tongue
now I speak
in the language of things with canines.
coyote-howl syntax
vulture-vowel decay
the guttural grammar
of vertebrae picked clean in a fox-den.
Even the dog forgets how to wag around me.
I tore my anger management book in half
made paper fangs
bit myself
felt nothing but pulp and fury.
I’m honey-badger-flipping-trashcans mad
rip-the-wires-from-the-wall
bite-the-mailman
howl-at-the-blender mad.
I hiss like a cobra in traffic
snort like a bull in a china shop
with barbed wire tangled on its horns.
Snarl like a raccoon in a dumpster brawl—
with nothing to lose and rabies to prove.
I pricked the rusted prongs
of the old pitchfork
cold as polar nights and sharper than razors
a blister popped now filled with barnyard muck.
I opened a drawer
found my childhood screaming—
it wouldn’t stop,
so I closed it.
Then madness steps in
tempts like belladonna disguised as balm.
Come closer it’s not so bad
licks the lesion with acid lingua
a serpent’s hiss spewing rancor.
and for a moment
I almost believe the lie.
But —
feathers torn from my own pillow
claw their way through the thick still air
fury scratching at festering feasting fleas
ripping drywall with claws I never knew I had
nesting in the dark where rage was born.
I swat at mosquitoes like rent collectors
kick the couch like a mule
call it catharsis
as if drywall gives a damn.
laugh because if you don’t
madness might devour you whole.
The mirror cowers
I punch it mid-sentence
carve NO in the fog with a cracked fingernail
laugh like a rabid dog with no leash
wild and untamed in a dead desert street.
I’m not okay.
I’m silk-rope-around-the-wrists-singing-a-lullaby mad
don’t-make-eye-contact mad
yellow-jackets-in-a-mailbox mad
forgot the prenups mad.
I’m the kind of mad
that hands you a thimble and says
Dig.
I cracked the drawer again
the screams were louder—
drowning out the child
I slammed it shut.—
———
“I think the fire’s out now—
but the smoke still screams.”
The therapist sits—
stunned, afraid to speak.
I lean forward,
Smile split like a jackal’s grin,
fresh from the kill, say,
“Do you want to hear what the rage said back?”
Then I reach into my pocket,
pull out the thimble,
place it gently on the table—
still warm.
Copyright ©
Daniel Henry Rodgers
|
|