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, it will feed me with the sauce of 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