his anger

his anger 
reflects
all the times 

he wanted to
weep 

but
couldn’t 

heaving enough
hot air
to beat himself
into oblivion 

he carries it 
close
like a companion 
of the hard seasons

that rages
on 

until his fists
pound all
the walls
and broken mirrors, 
he owns

and 
her pupils
soften into streams 

her face
now,
a ghost town 

mapped and abandoned
along her
cheek bones 

calling a wolf
a wolf
is not enough 

to stop 
this house 
from burning down 

it’s already 
engulfed in the debris
of his destruction 

and 
boyhood 
wounds 

nothing hurts 
here 
anymore 

at least,
in darkness 
we can pretend 

do not go
gentle into the 
nights 

when she is angry 
at the sun
for not setting 
to extinguish 
the fury of her days 

and writes poems 
that make grown men 
cry.

lh
nov 2021