Tonight's Poet Corner: In Search Of Discipline

In Search Of Discipline
by Belinda Roddie

In spite of everything they taught me -
every reminder, every motto, every ink
stamped and telegraphed Courier font
opus ordering me to stitch a zipper on
both corners of my lips - I lost my temper

again. Lost my mind in a confined space,
a makeshift office with a costume closet
where I could hide and pretend to be
anyone else from any other point in time.
At first, I felt twinging, then seething. Bubbling,

hot, reaching boiling point faster than I
thought, as if I was standing atop a mountain
peak, screaming down to the village below,
"I think this is actually a volcano I'm perched
on! Run! Flee! Save the women and children!"

But I didn't erupt. The anger was quiet.
It didn't yell, or howl, or slam its already
bruised fist against a desk or glass coffee
table. It didn't string profanity together like
a candy necklace that would get too stale

to eat in record time. It used to be, when I
was slighted, that I pretended to be a champion
boxer. I slung sloppy hooks and jabs and
punches holding as much strength and velocity
as a drunken cat swatting at a bird sitting

behind glass. Then I broke the rules: I pulled
hair and scratched and snapped like I was escaping
a zoo, or a mental institute. I roared and bellowed
as if I was half rabid dog, half typhoon - wet
and mangy and trying to swallow everything up

in a mudslide. Once it was over, the only
foundation torn up was my own, and I huddled
in the corner like a stranded madman, crying
into the driest crooks of my elbows, attempting
to fill desert oases with my own tears. Hugs

and kisses don't cover up the scars. Neither
do platitudes. But tonight, I sat and stewed
but became less savory with each interval,
every spoonful turned sour. But hey, at least
I didn't shout. At least I didn't bury my fists

into the wall like I wanted to entomb them.
At least I didn't slam the door behind me,
cause an earthquake and disrupt the neighbors,
knock our personal world off its axis so the
tidal waves rose to the stars. But the silence

eroded the space between us. Perhaps I did
exactly what they taught me - swallowed
my tongue, paralyzed it in amber that could
stand the test of time. You were frozen,
scared, worried that my anger would poke

out its head like the murderous asp
from Cleopatra's cleavage. You figured I still
had bite left despite the wired jaw. Now, I see
that I've learned nothing but how to stop
the hurricane with an umbrella. The deluge

is still imminent - you can't guarantee calm
without the storm. But let me at least
build you a raft, love, that won't capsize.
Because I can't confirm that my unbridled
rage is cured if no one trusts me enough
to hold back on my scalding inner ire.