Invention of Anger

When you have taken the breath
from the cat and the dry sun has
scratched the window, when

your strict eyes are a thin veil
of boiled wrath, and what few words
you could say, you do not say,

or will not say. When I know
I could sit at this stone for a thousand
years, two thousand years, waiting

to crack the first clue
of a dead language, you begin
clearing the ground, but the rock

you hold is not the tool
for writing, but the first weapon,
a rounded hammer lashed

to a stick, to shatter the teeth
or skull, or long large bones
of an intruder, anyone who might

hold two rocks aloft and strike.

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