Tender

I like my anger. I stoke it
like a fire, tend to it
with tender hands, cup
a hand ’round as I
blow to fan the flames
much larger. This fire is
the closest I’ve been
to Phoenix, for I sense
this meekness has never
been true and this fire will give
birth to the truth for which I wait.
Back to birth when rage let loose,
un-tempered, from tiny lungs
that cried for what was wrong
to be made right.