My pot boils.
I don’t attend it until the liquid is gone
and a dark, dead scum is left
to scrape off and wash away.
Whole kettles have been lost.

Sometimes a simmer
bubbles all day, attended and fragrant,
and a deadly anger turns to action,
into something to be savored
like a done just enough stew.

If one is evil, vengeance is food,
the feast of the grave
waiting by the door, unmastered.
If one is good, the feast is justice,
like a dug up garden
soaking up love to produce good fruit.

So don’t leave your pot untended.
Follow the fragrance up to your room.
Kneel on your bench and listen well,
or your heart will grow dry
and your mind imprisoned by your fears.

Anger needs to simmer.
Some days it is stew.
Some days it is death.
If not cooked in God’s kitchen,
who would know?