I was not allowed to be angry, so I bottled and drank
my rage with wine chilled by too many ice cubes--
I suppose that’s why I shiver at inappropriate times.
My parents said: You have to be the better person.
Even as you raped those girls, called my sister a liar,
mocked my mother and father as they drove to town,
attempted to arrest me for “demeaning of character.”
But I lost my temper, once, I felt it hot like nausea
creeping all the way to my fingertips before I
screamed and shouted and shattered two glass bulbs
hard against the tallest pine tree in our backyard.
I cut my middle finger picking up all the chips,
incidentally making me rethink my plan to punch you.
Instead, I imagined myself holding my father’s pistol,
the one he showed me how to shoot from 100ft,
complete with target acquisition training--just in case
you tried running--we both know you never
took me seriously enough for that. I bought a faceless
target shaped like a man, picturing your acne-skinned
cheeks warped with that smirk you wore when I tried
telling you to fuck off. All this before my anger faded,
fog rising from too-hot blacktop pavement when the air
cooled, snowflakes falling as I stuck my tongue out,
swallowing each crystal like a word I could have said.