most days i do not hear the bells—
i awake to my own anger which
rises twenty minutes before me,
jostles the bed and demands
i make it coffee.

i court my own fury and
cheat with idle pleasures,
dulled by a heart filled with hate.
i salivate, a dog waiting
for rage to ring again.

and besides, what should i be
if not furious—
i have every hand in the subway
clinging to me to stay up,
every eye in a dark place
clinging to me to stay up,
and my own eyes in a dark place
forcing me to stay up.

i am exhausted with a female exhaustion,
angry with a male anger.
i enter in a death march on
absent daily walks,
the kind old man insists on telling me
how lovely i look today.

he would ruin me if he could—
in the dark, i turn down
my blankets and let hate
come into my stomach.

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