A Matter of Aim

At most I can only
Manage a polite rage.
That slips out under
The closed door of my
Bedroom. Where I howl
Into pillows on the behalf
Of others. The subtle ways
Of killing a witch.

We all curl our toes
these days, feeling the flames
That are heating the sharp knife
We keep between our breasts.
We are beyond patience.
The waiting is now
Just a matter of aim.

This isn’t a warning
Because you wouldn’t listen
Anyway. Our voices don’t reach
Your sensibilities. But our
Rage has been heated
And tendered.
And that, my friend,
You will feel.