If only she was more demure, that
her words had come with a coy
smile, eyes dropped to her sunken
chest, no air in her lungs. Then
she could be comforted, her words
dismissed with pity and tissues,
muddied with commiseration, almost
passing for compassion. But she
prefers a beautiful rage. No obscure
intentions, each syllable in a dizzy
march on her tongue, knocking on
the backs of her teeth, pushing to get
out, tears and phlegm, saliva to air in
blunt plain words. Truth-telling is a rude
dignity, eye-to-eye combat, defiance
worn like a single strand of bloody pearls.
…
Anna Blake at Infinity Farm
Horse Advocate, Author, Clinician, Equine Pro
Consider my latest book, Horse Prayers, Poems from the Prairie.
Available from Amazon here and signed copies from me here.
Truth♥️ It can be our friend and can be comforting.
Thanks, Sharon.
Some of us live long lives before our “beautiful rage” manifests. You captured it – thanks, Anna!
Thanks, Pat. At a certain age, is it sage rage? (Miss you, hope you’re well.)
Corey drew my attention to this Anna and she’s right – this poem is about what I call righteous anger – fierce love – that screams “enough!”. My goodness you are an extraordinary writer…
Thanks, Jenny. I do love a righteous voice. (Might have startled our friend, Corey.)
Stopped me in my tracks. Again. Truth Teller.
We bite our tongues too much… Thanks, Deb.