I tell a friend that a good poem

makes anger rumble 

through the soft of my belly

and she laughs.

Asks why such beauty

warrants that response. 

 

When bed and body 

were smaller,

my home 

was always filled of sound.

Cacophony had only two causes

laughter or anger. 

 

And I’m uncertain

a rabbit blinking 

unsure when to bound away.

Do not think me angry

when perhaps it is only madness.

 

Laughter and anger,

a split hair

regurgitated up the throat

a string with opposing symphonies

uncertainty of which notes 

will play when struck.

 

And suddenly I am Alice

following a rabbit who is also me

as it runs rather than be perceived.

I am not confident enough 

in my own thoughts

to trust you’ll hear them

gently. 

 

But is it not these emotions

that opened my doorway,

that I heard through a crack

sneaking to hear what the family 

coughed from their lungs.

 

And I am 

laughing cackling howling

but the caterpillar 

hands me a poem

There is nothing funny

about the thought

that those hands 

that mind

crafted something so complete. 

 

Is it not these emotions

that taught me expression

could be beautiful?

That shattered my chest

to scoop the years 

of composting feelings

from between my intestines.

 

So when the poem does not warrant laughter

yet loudness is called for

can you blame me for the raging in my eyes?