You could always give me 
something to cry about 
find a space still 
unprotected, a door 
unlocked, a book 
in my hands instead  
of a broom or rag—
your rage exploding 
so bright and hot 
I curl into myself 
like a threatened armadillo 
my armored skin 
a last ditch defense 
when there is no where 
to run or hide, 
no way to block the burn 
of your voice, the weight 
of your fists, your belt 
snaking towards me 
like a tongue, a whip 
moving so fast it boomed 
like a jet, faster than sound 
too fast to catch 
with any words I found 
ground to a whisper 
under your outrage 
your anger an annihilation 
like the weight of God. 
Even now, in different rooms 
I cower at the threat 
of a raised voice 
the sound of anger 
rising, still unspent 
even though no arm is raised 
no fist clenched 
nothing but that fury 
in a living voice 
my sad inheritance 
those moments etched 
like acid on my skin 
a net of fire, a web of pain 
still holding me, defeated, 
in my place.

Bio: Mary McCarthy