Audrey Assad Even the Winter

Monday, September 28, 2009

Quiet I Wait

Fury simmers at a low boil
Waiting only for the recoil
As the lid they lift
And it blows--as they sniffed--
Into the face of the onlooker--
My pressure cooker.
My eyes stare cold like ice.
Cold tomato-red slices:
Blood is there,
Bubbling up as it greets the air.
For now the secret is hiding
As I wait and Time is biding
My Mind is taut; thought brims
To my frozen face, rigid limbs
With too great a misery
To move. My arms blistery,
Rage waits, quieted by new scores
With a blade as sharp and friendly
As an inciteful paramour

all rights are held by
Cynthia Lott Vogel

Any Reproduction in any form is forbidden without the expressed consent of the author
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