Modified

Angry

This fight lives in my body. Not a slap, not a fist. Me. Whole. I am challenge, affront, blasphemy. In your face like a splash of acid. Not by any choice of mine. No — that’s only partly true. I could soften the blow, offer you an easier invisibility. Neon over candle glow is a choice, one I make daily.

Today I sat across a table from a man who despises me, who sees himself so far above me that he ignores social convention, doesn’t sugar coat or conceal his disgust. He will not look me in the face, will not address his answers to my questions directly to me. He cannot accept anything I am if I’m not servant or slave, if I’m not less. He missed my memo, the one in which I explained that I am not a tool, not a cog in a mangled wheel. Not slave, not scullery maid, not open for discussion. 

The fight lives in my body, squares my shoulders, drinks the honey off my tongue. Challenge. Affront. The shrieking burn of acid on your skin. I’ve waited a long time for this embrace — me, my rage, my open palm curling.

(If I could just download all the thoughts that flash through my head into the brain of someone who could write poetry with a process that was nothing like giving myself a root canal.) I am still trying to  follow along with the Poem-A-Day challenge at Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides Blog. Today’s prompt is to pick an adjective and use it as the title of your poem.


NPM15_ForSite_FINAL_FINAL

Are you writing poems this month? Where can I see them? Let’s share this craziness!

You can post your daily poems on Brewer’s page. The top poem from each day will be included in an anthology later this year!

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One thought on “Modified

  1. Oh you are doing just fine. That last stanza is a whopper. I can feel that spark of anger growing. Why should you have to capitulate? The open palm curling – damn. Take care that flashpoint does not become rubicon.

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