angry blamer

Two withered roses with thorny stems.

angry blamer
you are a friend I hold
at arms length

Why this poem is so short

The first line came to me in my “demon hour,” 4 to 5 a.m.

I had tried and tried in my head to make a narrative poem of this, detailing every slight, every slur, every moment of dread, of boredom, of annoyance, and the final outrage that led to the break in the friendship.

Never wrote it. I dig for the “reason” I didn’t. But it just never seemed right. That’s how poetry is --  not reasonable.

Then those first two words captured everything I was trying to say. Just the way saying, “I’m touched,” said everything I felt when another friend remembered a moment from forty years ago and took the trouble to tell me. But that’s another poem.

Back to being angry. I thought about softening that first line. I could write, “You’re angry, blaming.” Then I’m not blatantly name-calling. But trying to be nice, to be a “good girl” was what was wrong with the narrative I kept shaping in my head. Trying to be objective, to be right, to explain it all. I suddenly see that, writing this. (Not for you only, dear reader, do I write!)

Let that first line stand. Let there be anger and blame on my side, too. Let me admit that it’s so.

Thank you, demon hour.