THE SCREAM

I watch you behind the 
frame: hands brutally 
clench, lips crack like 
dried vermillion paint,
one blood vessel sidles 
along a cheekbone. Glass 
in its mealy old setting 
vibrates, and I long for 
it to break, for your scream
to strike its target, for 
his grief to mean nothing 
as it curdles in his eyes: 
guilt gone rancid. Any 
second, particles of fury
will fertilize the lawn, 
shatter the windshield, his 
meaningless look back. 

Adrienne Weiss is the author of the poetry collections, Awful Gestures (Insomniac Press, 2001) and There Are No Solid Gold Dancers Anymore (Nightwood Editions, 2014). Her work has most recently appeared in ARC Poetry, Taddle Creek, and Room Magazine. She lives in Toronto, Canada.