After the blaze

He got stung by a wasp
and if he could have stung back
he would have.

I could see the anger
pushing against his eyeballs
from the inside.

Can I swear?
he asks me.

I nod and he starts
with wasps.

Fuck off, wasps,
he says.

And then like firecrackers
they shoot out of him,

Fuck Hitler too, and Trump,
and coronavirus and all bullies
and death and stubbing toes
and tomatoes.

He laughs then,
as though the laughter
had been there all along,
like tears,
those emotions that
wait patiently
for anger to ignite the underbrush
of so much frustration,
and then after the blaze,
in the clearing,
sadness and joy
get their chance
to unhook
and soar.