At the late afternoon hour
when sunlight oozes with pleasure
and dust glistens in sunshafts
wafting through the languid parlor
mingling with blue wisteria that dozes on windowsills
when my tranquil breath droops
ripe with poem and song
The door slams and
you enter
Now the sun strains
pulls taut with anticipation
of the contained fury
penetrating the house
electric and nauseous orange
like before the storm
Your face tight, limbs brusque
you rush and bluster
chest clenched
in breathless agitation
hands manic arrows
eyes marbled and eagle-fierce
your grey gaze hunts for its prey
Suddenly
I am the receptacle for your turmoil
I present you my trembling chalice
my spine fragile as its slim glass stem
my thoughts dispersing like vapor
We must follow where you lead,
our surly shepherd,
we, your quivering lambs
You have imprisoned yourself
in a box built of years
of nails and raw timber
splinters and sawdust
you lash out and bleed
you rage in your cage
holding us captive
in your world of wrath and right angles
So let’s sit down
and eat our daily meal
of spite and fear
Pour us your nectar of bitterness
we will consume it, dutifully
its broth boiling in our bellies
For decades we live like this
battle weary
you enfold your old wounds
in the fresh gauze of tyranny
your calloused heart
crushing our tender, fleshly centers
grinding us all to stone
