Flying with Fury

We drive back slowly
along roads widening
with emptiness.

House appears
tall windows gaping
black eyes.

Gravel sprays
machine gun patter
as we arc and stop

Door opens
for breath

Another solemn black
stick person
pity-pored and forgiving

I could slap her face
kick her shins
punch squarely her solar plexus

flying with fury
soaring like a street fighter
in Hong Kong.

She would smile weakly
that sickening look locked in her eyes
and say inanely “I’m so sorry for your loss, Dear.”

First published in Blue Giraffe, October 2006
© M.L.Emmett



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Filed under Death, Grief, Poem

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