I come from a long line of tea kettles. Stainless steel hearts,
our bodies built to hold waves of rumbling water. Heads steaming,
lips foaming with the overflow of pent-up frustration, of anger.
Mine came in waves, tantrums, preteen meltdowns so bad I’d scratch
my skin ’til it was violet, scarlet welts across my arms ’cause I didn’t want to do
anyone else harm. Sixteen, I pushed my brother down the stairs
and felt no remorse until I saw my mother go tumbling the same way, free falling
in matrimonial bliss. My father hovering like clouds of steam and smoke.
He taught us you must first burn your tongue to taste the sweetness after. I still have the scars,
still haven’t found the right pitch to sing my slow burn. A blackened ghost still
bellows inside me, but I am resting
in a place where anger evaporates and refuses to spill over.