Ashamed of the rage in your head.
Yank it out - your brain - toss it out.
Gone like garbage.

Ripe out your throat shouted red-raw,
Looking like fractured flute glass,
Crack and crusted
mucousy mebrane -
It's done its damage -
Set it high up on the shelf
Out of reach and danger.

Pinch out
Each lung -
Lungs -
A butterfly,
Flittery and fragile.
Crumple them up in white linen.
Shove them in a drawer.

One 'pop' two 'pop' three 'pop' four 'pop' five six seven eahgt nine
'pop' ten -
Fingers pop free.
Bind them up with yellow yarn.
Put them in a glass on the porch beside the mason jar
That holds the caterpillars
You cauhgt last month.

Rock in the porchswing
Watch the day itself dismantle.

Distracted.
Replace the fingers with the caterpillars.
Confused.
Waste the night feeling up the journal, fondling the
quill, stroking
echinacea plants in the backyard.
Exhausted.

Sleep.

Morning and your hands aren't where they belong.

Get up and go
to the porch and stick your fingers back in place.
Get up on a chair and get a hold of your throar and
slide it simple back into your neck.

Pull out the drawer and uncrinkle your lungs from the linen
And slip them on like a vest around your heart.

Somewhere else is your brain.
Good riddance. Gray lump.
Big as two fists pressed together.
No doubt it's crawling through the mud somewhere,
Still angry, still right,
Still looking for a fight.

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Aeguary, in the year 407 AF.