Anger
Richard Weiser 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. |
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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.