In case of VIOLENCE

Plague

I asked for pain

In the form of a swung fist, begged

For swelling plum and deep peach to crowd around my eye.

I wanted Sunday school, myself

To be eleven, hand shot up and smugly hyper-right

In all I knew. I wanted to throw a baseball

And devil take it, let it land, hit, or smash what it may.

And so, soul and bodily, I hurled it all away.

My cheekbone opened like a rose.

And yes, the years fell back, and stood to watch

But I cracked wide and broke

Against a truth of consequence and cost.

I read: even a plague of frogs is an act of loving grace.

(I will be something better for these bruises on my face.)