Sacred Rage
by Crystal Craig

I respect your choice
to sit in the circle,
hands open,
sending songs into the wind,
trusting that the current will carry them
to the right shore.
I want that too.
Gods, what a gift it would be
to rest in the belief
that all will work out,
to close my eyes
and feel nothing pressing
but the rhythm of breath
and the heartbeat of the earth.

It is a privilege
to turn away from what does not touch you.
To believe the fire will put itself out
if you only sing sweet enough.

But if you stand in that stillness
and call me “negative”
because I shout,
because I march,
because I write until my fingers ache
and call the poison what it is,
then you are mistaking my defense
for destruction.

I am naming the cages,
the starving children,
the land stripped to bone,
the rivers choked with our greed.
I am naming the men who smile
as they take what can never be returned.
And I will not apologize
for refusing to bow to them.

You sit in peace
because others stand in the path of violence.
We are holding the door open for you,
even as you scold us
for the noise.

Your comfort is built on our unrest.
Without enough of us standing guard,
you will one day learn
what we have learned—
and by then,
the door will be gone.

This is my rage.
It is not the opposite of love.
It is love sharpened into a blade.
It is sacred and it is wild,
and it will not let me sleep
while the world burns.