Rage



RAGE

You think that you know rage,
the hammered thumb,
the slow clerks,
a snarky boss,
the wife and the best buddy
tangled and tongue wrestling
on the family sofa.
Most folks think
that they have seen red.
My friend, they have not even seen pink.

But I myself, ah, well,
I have seen scarlet,
deepest burgundy,
vermillion,
magenta,
oxblood, on a really bad day.

And it pains me to say it,
but I let a woman do it to me,
turn me into something bestial,
make me drop the reins and bite.

What can you do
for bilious hatred
so vitriolic
that it would burn through decks
like sci-fi monster blood,
so thick with wheal
that it seeps from your pores
like garlic and vodka?

I talk about it to a willing stranger
whom I employ for this very purpose.
He is very receptive,
but I get the feeling,
he is churning,
watching me for signs
of impromptu behavior.

My experience
has so far
been latticed and curlicued
with difficulties.
But under the open sky
I spit my ANGER,
my HATE,
and my FURY
into the wind,
and still walk away
with rage on my breath.

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This poem appeared in the chapbook "Grief Tattoos" - get it for the Kindle HERE

©2014 Christopher Reilley
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