The Poetry of Mary K. O'Melveny

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RAGE

 

I am filled up with it.

I could float to the Moon.

And beyond.  To places

no one has ever gone.

 

I went to the water

thinking it would put out

the ire that consumes me,

my grey hair turned scarlet.

 

I sat down in the woods

but had to leave, fearing

forest conflagrations

too large to be put down

 

by mortal firefighters

used to dealing with a

forgotten cigarette

or a careless camper.

 

How can one stop anger

that is sparked back up by

each new day’s outrages,

every pore blazing.

 

Perhaps skyward is best.

I can search for Vulcan,

ask him how thunderbolts

can be forged from my flesh.

 

11-25-16

 

 


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