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i hate the poem i haven't written yet
the one that's stuck behind my ribs
pounding a truth so loud i don't wanna hear it
shouting, "will somebody please listen to me?"
"does anybody ever listen?"
i have a child of rage who has too many things to say
and too small a vocabulary to say them
perhaps if she could dance, she'd have the chance
to move them like branches chosen as treaties of peace
wind-blown, sun-struck, sweet
but she can't dance, either.
she was told she should be nicer
and quiet, and careful, and calm
she didn't have the kind of mom
who fought like dinner was on the line
when her freedom was at stake
no, her mother shouldered the weight
of being called a mistake
of being told her waking soul
wasn't enough, and believing it
"will somebody please listen to me?"
"why doesn't anybody see the path to love?"
"i'm hungry. i don't think there's enough here."
so i grow up with that gnawing fear
that insatiable hungering for love
and i cook and cook and cook
and the pot is overstuffed
and the plate is piled high
and the table is crowded in
and i think i'll never have to shout again
the walking directions from the home of your heart
to the home of mine
but i'm wrong--
this time, and next time--
a feast is not enough
we're all carrying children of rage in us
each with a different bus-full of shouts
that no one can quite get out
like a bad dream
when you try to scream
and the silence stuffs into your mouth
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