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Angry Girl:



You say my anger squats and rises in me 

like a stale loaf, half-baked 

on the low rung of a broken oven,

its steel trays slamming and wincing 

through the hinges,

like so many mouths in braces 



(not saying: fists against faces).



Or that my anger flops on the world 

like an off pie. 

collapsing in the middle, 

the kind you’d decapitate at break-time 

to attack only from the inside. 

“Besides, eating this is basically like  

having ten slices of bread,” you’d smirk, 

monitoring each mouthful



(not saying: through a jaw forced open).



But, actually: 



My anger doesn’t irritate or itch.

Because it’s a fact, you see, not a glitch.

Comforting, it folds and separates, 

like sheets, like a duvet,

and in it I stuff each dismissal away. 

I press the push buttons to seal it, 

small and reshaped.  

I tuck it in at the edges. 

I remake it every morning.



My anger flares down time,

fast as a fish

caught in another sort of current,

electric and silvered, 

not with scale but reflection.

You consider it catched,

snatched and still in your net.

Not admitting it’s vibrating. 

Never saying it’s not dead.



My anger moves as if ash 

down your institutional passage,

staining each surface, 

fingering the walls.

It doesn’t ask permission to travel

because fire never does.



All my anger requires

is some sort of friction, 

a tension solved by air. 

A gasp, I guess, 

at the kindling you levered

from legs pushed apart

into small stacks you’d hacked, 

sure the pyre was the point, 

sure containment was ahead.



Forgetting that flames spread.


Genna Gardini