Vachon Imagined

Let me be angry, she cried—
every fervent tone
not made for people
who can’t handle themselves,
who punish her instead.

Let me be angry,
she would stare into his eyes,
boldness like fire,
him trying to calm her,
him trying to calm himself,
something not allowed,
something between them,
this pale door of consciousness
with a “Do Not Enter” sign
out of fear of one another,
fear of themselves.

But she unlocked it anyway,
step into the doorway,
cobwebs tangled in her hair,
sorted features,
nails gone cold,
crumbs buried long ago.

He wanted her to soothe him,
to hold him together
so he wouldn’t be abandoned
by her, by himself.
Let him fix me—
let him think he’s fixing himself,
making it alright,
controlling what isn’t within his control,
but she is not his control,
not his quiet, not his soft.

Still, she found her way—
through the pressure, through the need,
through the demand, through the fear,
to her anger,
to her centerpiece,
to her feast.

Let her taste every morsel,
let her devour it,
without having to explain
its texture, its heat, its bite.
Through it,
through herself,
she comes alive—
anger her solvent,
anger her identity,
anger her body, her breath,
her doorway, her fire.