Her Anger

Your fingers bleed

from digging

at the intractable knot

at your core.

The anger,

the hideous heirloom

that your mother,

always teetering on rage,

passed on to you.

You attack

this knot

as if it were

the sinew

of your mother’s words,

gnarled

but strong enough

to choke your joy.

Slowly,

over the years,

it unravels,

a Medusa’s head

of flailing strands

sucking air.

3/02/03

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