MD Kerr

Day 29

A fold poem

Handwritten poem

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flourish

Thereís nowhere for your rage to go. Itís unfair
to beat up a fridge because you canít dance,
and it makes your knuckles swell. You want to tear
the moon from its storm-sky, rip roofs with gales,
or just cook something again. And you canít. Itís unfair
to howl with loss at the people whoíre cooking for you,
whoíre putting your tights on, tying your shoes. The burden of care
is enough without you complaining of dust. All the force
of solar flares are rushing your limbs while your chair
is pushed along glass-smooth floors and you wince
at the bumps, wet with pain, and you have to accept: itís unfair.

Thanks to napowrimo.net for the prompt to write a poem meditating on a past strong emotion. The bit about the fridge is true. Fold poems were invented by Gillena Cox, though I think I've used it slightly more loosely than her original form.

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