Talking to Rage
Oh, slow rage of the night,
panther hidden in my dreams,
there are other hunting grounds,
other places to rest, to feed,
to grow, away from here.
Because I raised you from a tiny
cub; fed you carefully with my
thoughts, and gave you a home in my mind,
a small dark cave,
you will not leave.
But if I throw you out, cover your
cave with a layer of snow, you will
only return, pregnant with new rage.
Then there will be
new children, to nourish, to raise into
new anger, until I push them out.
And they will return, and war with each other,
ripping more space in my
mind, finding small, dark caves
for seething young to grow.