Hate
Heather Dyer
Hate
curls up in my lap
like a cat.
The trees
fidget
and twitch
with embarrassment.
The flowers nod sagely--
they would wilt
if I touched them.
The sky gapes
with shock.
Hate
wails and I
stroke it,
and the sun turns
its face away.
Hate
purrs, and
its claws are ready.
