Writer. Faith. Community

A Poetry Expression

Forged at the Plumbum x BXWriters Workshop — "For Malcolm: Etheridge Knight" facilitated by Sol Emiliano

Anger Is...

Anger is the second prayer.
The one that comes after the asking
didn't work. The fist
that forms when the open palm
got nothing back
but wind.

Anger is my father's silence
at the dinner table — not the quiet
of a man with nothing to say
but the quiet of a man
who said it all once
and nobody
moved.

Anger is the F train
stalled between stations — the whole car
holding its breath, every passenger
a country
with closed borders, every delay
a visa denied
to the version of your day
you were promised.

Anger is the brother outside the masjid
who knows every ayah about patience
and still
punches the steering wheel
in the parking lot
before Jumu'ah. Don't judge him.
His sabr has a body
and that body
is tired.

Anger is what they call it
when a Black man raises his voice.
When a Muslim stands firm.
When a woman
doesn't fold.
They have softer words
for when other people do it —
passion. conviction. leadership.
But when it's you
it's always
anger.

Anger is the tea kettle
nobody takes off the flame.
Not the whistle —
the whistle is release.
Anger is the five minutes
before the whistle
when the water is screaming
inside a closed
mouth.

Anger is love
with nowhere to land.
Read that again.
Anger is love
that knocked on every door
and found them
bolted. So it kicked
one in. And they called it
violence. And they wrote it
in the report. And nobody
wrote down what it was
before it became
the kick.

Anger is the poem
that won't let you sleep.
The one that grips your pen
at 2 AM
and writes itself in a hand
you don't recognize
because it belongs
to every ancestor
who swallowed the word
so you
could finally
spit it.

Anger is not the opposite of faith.
Anger is faith
with its shoes off.
Prayers done.
Hands still raised.
Asking God the question
every prophet asked
at least once:
How long?
And the silence after
isn't absence.
It's the answer
loading.

Anger is a door
you were told
never to open.
Open it.
There's a garden behind it
that only grows
in heat.