My Anger   I’m delighted with my anger — I comb its hair, massage its feet. My anger makes me better than my enemy — a home that I can live in, a home for heartbreaks and drunken celebrations. When I need to leaven my bread with bile, fill the kitchen with my own aroma, anger feeds me with delicious bitterness, the rich flavor of victimhood — behold my wounds, behold my halo, how my anger has bewitched me, changed my dressings, sent its goons to do my dirty work, my razzmatazz, my mission. It’s my pride, my pulse, my sign of life. I love my anger — mine, mine, mine.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont November 2019