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When I am Angry
When I am angry
I stab a newspaper with Mom's ironwork scissors.
What do you do?
Tonight I ate lead and drank honeysuckle wine.
These trapped all of my meanness inside of me,
wrapping all my spikes inside three layers of tired blubber.
Do you pedal through your anger like a bicyclist at night,
with orange deflectors wrapped around your arms
to let everyone know you are there?
I strip myself of warnings and let the New Moon seep into me
so that a taxi driver could run right through me and not know
until he awoke screaming from a dream of blood and mud and pale face.
When I am angry
I rape the page with my pen.
What do you do?
-Betina Hershey, 9/2000