first, think that anger is

a beautiful thing: the way

it transforms saliva to nitroglycerin,

jelly-like eyes to hard, crystalline lights.

how it runs live wires deep beneath

flushed lips and fingers.

on the car ride to school,

father’s knuckles

lock moon-white

around the steering wheel, and

your limbs have

gone numb.

remember: the capacity to smile

is forged by practice, not happiness.

expressions are evoked by the memory of routine,

sewn into the wood of your classroom door

like termite kisses.

feel the anger sink deep

like an anchor,

but refuse to fade,

for life recycles and reuses

all byproducts of

the human heart.

let the anger linger, suspended

beneath the veneer of

a still-beating heart, a wild animal

waiting to lunge.  

imagine anger, the life of it,

painting every face. wonder how it would look

if the history teacher were as alive as

his raging wars and holy declarations,

heart whittled with zest,

purpose lighting anew in wizened folds

of flesh and furrows.

let hands tighten in the lap,

knuckles turning white with tension.

feel like a criminal,

your life stretched to an eternity

in wait of an unforgiving verdict,

and let the release of anger

be the judge’s snapping gavel.