Warning for the Angry

There you are, waist-deep, water
not water but the past, overhanging

fruit not fruit but anger. And you want
your anger. And you’d be surprised

the ways the body contorts to get what it wants.
Like you are an illusionist and your skin itself

the shackles to be shed. And you’d be
surprised that still you can’t have it, what

you want, that is. If the waters
come up too high, it means

you’re not thirsty enough
to drink everything, or so

they say. No, not desperate
enough to watch the lake go dead

dry, fruit withered when you
finally put it in your palm. We

want our anger. And we didn’t
see the lightning until we held it.