All my beauty has been born from my rage.
All the golden dawned healing,
all the sacred touches of lineage, sacrifices, tears,
bold and becoming has been birthed from that screaming place.
The shame places, the sore, pussy wounds that were once covered, quieted and ignored.
They ruled anyway.
I saw myself as a giant, swarming from adolescent to child and back again,
I destroyed it all, the cheap, modular home, the vast desert landscape,
the endless cold, blue sky.
I reached to the top of it and smashed and ruined and salted
and then I crumpled.
Fetal.
Sobbing.
Grief rose from my red hot rage.
It encircled and entwined and it rained.
It poured,
it covered and flooded and washed it anew.
My rage invited the baptism.
My rage,
The rage,
Our rage,
my ancestors rage,
for all did their best with what they had and still it passed on,
compounded, hardened, chiseled.
I walked into the fire and I emerged
Blessed.
Blessed be the ragers,
for their honesty points to the wounds.
Blessed be me for I am being saved
by my rage.
Holy, holy, holy,
Compassionate and fluid,
smoothed stone, rooted and ruined.
So much of it ends with me and mine.
My eyes, my fingertips, my heart
They are glowing.