Daily I have thought of this girl—she was ten,

maybe—who roared at the dentist’s office.

 

Someone had taken great pains to train her

to put words to her feelings, you could see that,

 

and she did; I am still feeling anxious,

she roared, this otherwise small person,

 

and whatever rage was in her voice, or fear,

mostly it was the insistence that struck me,

 

an understood Listen addressed to an understood

you, an understood grabbing of the lapels

 

no one there had. She needed it known, she was

suffering an inner rash, an allergy to topaz lights

 

and sickle probes. I think of her when my son

clambers out of the car, his backpack is huge,

 

I am still feeling anxious. Extinction, fever, smoke

for weather, the mini-mall with Mr. Gun Dealer

 

neighboring Once Upon a Child, I am still feeling

anxious. Listen. Listen, or roar it with me.