“Where

has anger led?”

Her query

was demand.

“That shimmering

red-veil firestorm

kindled and fed

the flux and

transmission

of broken light,

the fiery collision

of past

present

future,

devouring and

insatiable.”

Flushed,

she paused

for breath.

“I will wear grief

instead,”

she began again,

“Those blunt

bruised shades

of blue-gray

melancholy…

I will wear grief,”

she affirmed.

In the mirror,

our eyes met.

“until our

collective heart

is restored

and polished,

and its calloused

ache – at last –

is shed.”

 

 

— C.Birde, 8/30/19