Anger looks good on the both of us

Our anger will not destroy anyone unless it is meant to—
if there is no space for anger there will only be two bodies 
or two cities dressed half-naked in grief. 
You have poisoned the water I drink from, 
and the horses are falling from their teeth. 
so this watering hole was never the one, 
this watering hole was meant to hold all of our failure, 
look at the way the sediment sheds off our bodies as we 
crane our bodies in an attempt to slake. 
we will never be able to slake like this. 
material suffrage mediates the body’s ability 
to be there, to even think about light. 
In the end, I was the lamb, I am rising
to the altar, leaving, burying you softly, 
with a kiss to the land all this 
just to grow as a voice. 
One day, we will know when the fresh of us rises from the dirt, 
when the firstborn of our hair begins to poke from the gravel. 
And we will know ourselves, soon. 
we will dance upon the burial ground of the body 
that once was us— meant by assimilation, 
meant by the cracking of the nation against our skin.