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.
See the new NaPoWriMo poems as they pop up, complete with pics of the handwritten drafts, natter to me, and help me with titles for them, via whatever social media you call home:
All my poems on this site are now #FreeForPoets to play with, to write hybrid forms such as glosas, coupling poems, golden shovels, acrostics, centos, and erasures. Full permissions here: #FreeForPoets.