To Rage Against It

To Rage Against It
For Henri Nouwen, for Noe, for you in this struggle

Clinging to Abel’s blood-drenched sheepskin,
Adam raged against it that would also murder me. He raged with the bitter cry of pain.
The hollow days, absent of emotion,
overflow with danger; a heart grows callouses by days and days of rubbing against its grain,

yet no one takes her to the doctor.
Why doesn’t she just go take a walk—won’t the fresh air make her all better?
As if she hadn’t thought of that.
As if his righteous repeat, love you mija, should cut through the friction between them,

so he could blame her.
Mom was told that it’s genetic, kind of like alcoholism or like breast cancer.
Scrubbing it clean,
she used concentrated bleach to remove the stink and shame of the blood flooded tiles,

still on display like Aaron’s golden calf.
A gyroscope would show my wilderness wanderings like an ant running a Mobius strip.
Does Mom hate me?
That I scrub to remove the layers of callouses, from cutting against my heart’s grain?

For not wanting another day of this?
Noe had friends, family, but no one could locate the tearing pain in his head,
and no one took him to the doctor.
He thought he was better than them because he had reached the edge, and had not jumped off;

he only replaced rage with madness.
Dad told stories of captured Allied spies who would kill themselves as a last act of free will—
fault implies responsibility implies control.
Like grasping a rocky overhang, tired and scanning for the next hidden hold. I ask,

Not my fault? To hell it isn’t! Whose then?
Kiddo, finally let yourself mourn; let yourself rage and yell the beautiful, beautiful cry of pain.
Like Adam’s release
of that sheepskin so stained, you can replace madness with rage.

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This is the first poem in my book, "Snapshots An On-Growing Collection of Poems (2012-2016)" which is available on Amazon. I am on facebook and my email is I would love to hear feedback and/or encouragement from anyone.