Tell me again about the uses of anger,
about the ways in which we’ve decided
to refuse to feed the best, softest parts
of ourselves to the animal with many heads

guarding the gates, the dark shape hunched
at the center of its lair— What is the price
for rising above the weeds, for coming
out from behind the ruins to show

our faces, be fully visible in the light?
Once, we used to cower before the beast.
Once, like owls and other creatures
we masked our movements with night.

But then the moon showed us other ways
through the labyrinth; it said: Take
the red pulse at your wrist and don’t
lose it. Let no one ever take it away.

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