IN THE CAGE
I would like to say good-bye to my rage,
snare it and send it for taxidermy.
But it sits on my chest, in my chest,
pinning me to the spot,
to a series of moments, one beginning moment.
I am complicit. I have fed it,
slipped raw meat between the bars
of its ribbed cage. There have been days
when I thought I could put it on a leash,
walk it down a logical sidewalk,
get it to heal in the company I despise.
But this is a false premise. The rage
has claws in me, shows its fangs
when I look in the mirror.
I know its slashing violence.
I am in the cage with it.
I would like to see my rage melt,
dissolve like snow on river,
become indistinguishable in the current.
But it runs me through, a sabered
icicle that turns my breath harsh.
I have offered it little warmth,
pretended only a little
that hardness offers clarity.
I want to know how rage can be a gift,
what series of steps or elemental additions
might transform it---
What does rage become let loose?
What does rage become trapped away?
What does rage become?
Maureen Buchanan Jones
WRITING PROMPT: Write about your rage.