In some anger
there is cleansing. In some rage
there is fire that removes
the ragged, leaves behind the
minimal, leaves behind a site
ready to grow scars and new flesh.
Some of us are born angry
because we’re needed; narrow-boned,
slinky as assassins, assigned
to the fire priests: the
clean up squad, and while we burn
with the job, scream a little with it,
we mostly don’t complain.
It would have been nice
to be cool
and happy,
to learn, for instance, why everyone
likes swimming so much. But
not all of us were born
to be happy. Some of us
were born
to live an entire life
ablaze;
you can thank us whenever
you’ve stopped shouting at us.
