My poor mother had to take me to Emergency, twice.
Once I ate cigarette butts
out of the ashtray.
Another time, I drank turpentine.
It was in a metal tin
and looked like maple syrup.
I see you there, anger,
clear and bright
like water channeling sunlight.
I was always told you were poison,
but I made myself sick
not drinking you down.
I accept you now. I take you in.
Anger is not hate.
Hate is a sword without a hilt.
But anger, in the service of love,
like a mother’s panicked drive to Emergency,
is defensive fire, it protects, it saves.
About the Author: Richard Weiser is a poet, musician and playwright. His work has been published internationally in journals such as HCE, Acumen and 99 Pine Street and produced at The Toronto Fringe Festival.