the patron saint of wrath

here I sit, smoldering beneath
june's blood moon

as I inhale the darkness,
lungs heaving with the acrid smoke
of a silence that tastes like exhaust fumes.

if I could stamp out every feeble star
that flickers in this charcoal sky,

tonight, I would, until the fever broke,
shouting myself hoarse at the horizon
because I can't scream at you, dad,

my bones shuddering with rage.