The symbol of my rage is a garden, inverted beauty with teeth.
Filmy petals in the dirt and twisted thick roots reach upward
in a gnarled act of mercy.
Vapor of memories float through making shapes shift from putrid to monstrous.
If I walk through without stopping, I am grateful.
But when it’s late into the night,
when my resolve gives way and I yield to watch the shadows of the dead.
It brings a deranged panic to my system,
and tears from unknown depths.