Storms happen at the base of our brains,
where hot electric flashes bite through tangled cloud
and strike our spines. I do not fear our anger.
Rage is kind. Rage lifts a clean gun once
and shortens the waiting,
makes a hero of a ghost,
a meal of bones. I would rather die a fish
in the belly of a shark
than a suicidal whale. The simplicity of it—
eat, or be eaten. Fact is the antidote
to being crippled by this deceptive heart.
It is a fact we do not know ourselves.
I know bloodthirst,
I know worship: well-lit wonders,
desire’s labeled poles. What though
is this, that draws and drags and pulls
me over and over to shore, to shore, to shore?
I can almost taste rust in the roof of my mouth.