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.