My daily sit.  I focus on a spot
About six feet in front of me
   And six inches off the floor.
Under the old hope chest with short legs
That holds the candles, glasses of water, scrap of scripture
   For my meditation
I focus on the chest's decorative carving -
Two horizontal loops of wood slant downward
From the bottom of the chest and meet: eyes.
I’ll think about this after I finish my sit.
The eyes watched me while I sat.
Their regard as steady as a cat’s
 But malevolent.
A manifestation from the hell realm.
   A spirit, 
      anger, probably.
Righteous Anger lives here, mine and Mary’s.
Mine is sent long distance, directed
   To the fascists in the legislature,
      To Republican party leaders.
 Mary’s closer to home, often at me,
   More often at herself.

I’m glad I can see you, or part of you, o spirit of anger.
I acknowledge you; I accept you.
And so you will not catch me unaware,
   to rip and rend at your command.
I will not let myself by blinded
   by righteousness.
I will not let my vision be obscured
   by tears of self-pity.
I will not avert my gaze in fear
   of seeing my own shortcomings.

I will befriend you.
As steadily as your eyes regard me,
 I will regard you, and your mirror image,
   Which is love.
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