heart hurt heat
she allows herself to be angry but not to scream the rage into the shape of a vessel that holds the portent of her fury, the whirlwind that could rise from her unrootedness, the downrightedness from which she is convinced of her own deserving notion to hold these truths to be self-evident that she is a frame on which it is unfair to hang such injustice and that it is not overblown for her to receive credit in some parallel universe for all the favors she’s granted unseen and for some kind of bedrock to rise from the muck and landslides.
and in realms even more palpable, that it isn’t fair that the heat factor has skyrocketed physical comfort to top priority and that she’s now strategizing closed curtains just past waking and angling fans and icing water and figuring when and how far to drive around in an air conditioned vehicle with the dogs and — well — how long can this keep up — poor dogs, poor her, poor world.
and what of the mess of all else — every damn branch of government broken, each a flailing widowmaker in a brittle national forest vulnerable to the next lit match, and she sees the claws growing sharper, clouds retreating as bombs sail in, listless children wandering like hansel and gretel toward one mass extinction, the histories hysterical in their repentance, the angels of mercy taking flight for an overdue respite out of this wicked space and time, our work here is done, the last band of them sings, tossing a final few glittering rainbows behind them in reverie, and whatever her anger meant to her means nothing now.
