A Fine Anger

I watched a boy crush
bird skulls with an angry, stolen
hammer all day long.
He was producing
a fine white powder. I was jealous
not to have a portable pestle and mortar
to continue his work. I knew
that I could grind throughout my lifetime
never getting the powder fine enough. Never
excising the anger.

Years later I stumble into a familiar cult worship
grinding and moaning with other robed members
names of: parents, siblings, bullies, teachers,
politicians, lovers and car salesman.
While the enigmatic leader, the young boy
grown, rattles fresh bird skulls
repeating:
Forgive us our trespasses as we steadily
grind those who trespass against us.

Eventually I will be the bones ground
by my unknown children or the women
I have not yet mistreated.
Yet I should be so lucky to survive,
as even grindings -- pure
emotions. Most likely
my bones will never snap
and release all knowledge and pressure.
My grave will never be touched, body
never exhumed. We are all simply left
to be contained.