Dear Anger

 

I know you are there to protect me

from the violent corruption of disembodied vanity

the other's egos claiming ownership of my love

or the labour of the most vulnerable beings.

I know you will not go away

while young children are raped

while small hands are whipped

while mothers shake in fear.

I know there is a place for you

tired, weary, called out again and again

watching innocent blood stream down

the gutter of capitalism.

My stomach tightens as much as my mind

while stories of conquest

obliterate relationship between kin

silencing rhythm of rain on a roof.

I am at risk of hiding in my closet

waiting for the next show to start

unnamed, unseen, humble

living and dying without scars.

Nothing to speak of

leaving behind no visible sweat

of rage against all the crimes

that describe the nature of things.

Please go and visit conceited

strategists, chess players

and high heeled messengers

marching down shiny corridors

and their bosses in well-lit offices,

please churn the Machiavellian 

time sheets and their wealth

accumulated from babies' tears

while I get on and do the task

of housekeeping the worlds

and their cities—not to make them shiny

but to clean up the rot beneath concrete.