My rage is quiet
It is tired, and overwhelmed
But it is there, always
With a headline, an anecdote,
It rises up against my heart
Threatens to sweep me away
At once fathomless and focused
But always quiet
When did I learn this silence?
How did the girl
Who could never stay quiet
Become the woman
Who never made waves?
Riding instead on the quiet tide
Allowing herself to be dashed
On rocks sharp with fear and expectation
How did she become the quiet body
Of another’s possession
Whose history was no longer hers to write
Or correct
My rage is quiet
It is tired, and overwhelmed
But it is there,
Always.