Jonny Teklit

Notes on Anger

after Mary Ruefle

ANGER AS STONE

What do I do with all this resentment
thrown like a stone into the lake
of my body? It’s too deep to fish out
and I don’t have the heart to drain
the whole body of water
looking for one smooth and poisonous pit.

ANGER AS CAVE SALAMANDER

It writhes in my grip, cold and slick.
It has long since lost the ability
to see, a result of its ecosystem
of darkness. Still, it remains
restless and hungry, hungry
for something, anything, to eat.

ANGER AS OLD MANOR ON THE HILL

No one lives there anymore, hasn’t for a long time.
Everyone jokes that it’s haunted. Of course,
it isn’t. It isn’t anything anymore, hardly
even a house. Just a hollow monument
of something once lived in, a place
the wind conspires its howls.

ANGER AS SUMMER

An unrelenting season.

ANGER AS LETTER

so thick with bitterness,
the ink never dries, only bubbles,
only runs and smears and stains
everything it touches. Hold it
upright and it’ll weep,
a black lake pooling in your lap.