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.