On Anger

The blood blister burst
when I was nine years old:
closed fist, closed heart,
dressed in a Disney dress.

I don't want pity.
I want soft eyes.
I don't want money.
I want love.

I never said it would be easy
opening that fist,
closing it around something warm,
something other than grief.

I never said it would be easy
or beautiful, because I'm neither.
I'm broke and broken.
Those are my crimes.
Leaving, with fists closed:
this is your regret for loving me.
I shoulder your blame,
blisters from the heat.
And yet the anger is always
yours.

Carrier Train

Waiting for light, the ah-ha moment.
It appears at the end of the tracks.
A crack in the jaw, eyes barely open,
I run toward jeopardy.
It's the last thing I see,
my hope, my end.