I hide my power in a cloak I hoard as anger.
My jaw gears like a charging bull;
hairs horn from my butting forehead.
“sky. There is no edge from which to hang
my plumb-line. No ledge on which to lay
my spirit-level. And you are outside piling logs,
working on your own wreckage.”
—Dorothy Molloy, Sobs rack my chest
I hide my power in a cloak I hoard as anger.
My jaw gears like a charging bull;
hairs horn from my butting forehead.
Stick of flame, I bring fresh heat
to a room like sun in sky. There is no edge
from which to hang your escape. I whore surrender.
Not bad this giving up. No tit
for tat just a hit in the chest
where you slip between heartbeats.
