How A Temper Grows Up

In the morning there is a doorway—

bare bone soft feet step bare

so as not to make floorboards scold.

Voices lowered by the dawn,

a small body pressed to the lapel of a kitchen wall,

a cast iron skillet speaking pancake batter.

This is the world of the newly born,

plus the alleyway off Galt Ave.

and the front yard tree with branches for arms.

There is rage at the taking of things,

lullabies to sooth the inability to dress oneself,

to bathe oneself clean of the day.

The outside is where the swings are

that keep from the sky, where I learn

feeling the wind is like flying standing still.

If I am to be here there must be a blaze,

or at least something that spits and howls

and is not too stubborn to die after burning.

When I learn to love

remind me of the whip between my teeth,

of the bees trapped in my mouth.

Call me home twice like dinner is cold

before I run to beat you

to the place my breath is heaviest.

Most times I can’t find my hands,

left inside where the world can’t get in

if I close the door tight enough.

In here these voices claw at the wall

loud as shadows and I fight them

like my fists have never known flat palms.

I have calmed this rage to a rain

you will still smell in your clothes

the morning after. 

By Makenzie Berry