Foundation

By Niall Twohig

I hear love beneath your rage

the love for those children in the rubble

but also—

The love for those you’re raging at.

Those who walk to midterms ignoring the children in the rubble.

Those who expect you to return to “normal”

when “normal” is what allows the bombs to fall.

You rage at them, ecstatically,

And beneath your rage:

the amber glow

of Dr. King.

Someone told me this week:

We get angry at those

we love the most.