Another Wave

Spring seems hushed
this year. I’ve become
just another they’ve used
to grow silence.
They point at us,
we who are abandoned,
they say, Look
what comes from speaking.
Better keep quiet
if you want to live.

The thing about rage
is its autonomy.
It climbs, a separate being,
from rib to rib, cracks
the bone to enter my sternum.
Even on my best days,
I can feel it rising
up my throat, feel
its scorch and smolder.
Rage has no regrets.

I flip through photos
of my past, that Before.
Despite a heat wave
morning glory continues
to climb the fence.
I will be soft and thrive.
I remember how the sun turned
each flower into a lantern,
and my heart burns.
Maybe there are some things
that will outlive us.

A funeral passes.
The faces in each car
look like stone, mouths shut.
So many funerals this year.
So much silence.
I call out the names
of those I love.
They cut the air
like a rebuke.

********

This poem was originally written in July, 2021.