The Angry Ones

They live outside
secretly longing
to be invited in.
Open your door to them,
but do not require that
they enter.
Instead, return to your kitchen.
Set your table
but do not call them in for dinner.
Allow them to pace awhile,
even to run through your roses,
ripping them from their roots
fingertips bleeding as they
tear them apart petal by petal,
shouting No, when they really means Yes.
If you are patient,
they will enter at their own pace,
drawn by the aroma of your freshly-baked bread
the promise of warmth and sustenance.
Though they are children, all of them,
muddy and riled,
wild and unkempt,
do not force them to wash before
sitting down to eat.
Remember, they have been shamed and dishonored,
ridiculed and lied to; rejected, misread, abandoned,
not chosen,
forced to do that which they would not do.
They have forgotten their manners.
They have forgotten where it is they belong.
Do not try to teach them,
do not try to convince them of their worth,
that the meal has been prepared for them.
They may be afraid at first even to sit,
eyeing with uncertainty
the steaming bowls of soup,
the thick bread and rich butter for spreading.
If they do take a chair, they may
place it as far away from you as possible.
Allow them any table edge they choose.
Ignore how their feet jiggle
so fiercely that your floor vibrates.
No one will perish,
do not ask them to stop.
If they slam their spoons
against their plates,
do not scold them.
Otherwise, you will become
the thing they fear the most,
you will become just like them:
tight and distrustful.
Remember,
this time they have hurt no one
they have not hurt you,
they have not hurt each other,
they have not hurt themselves.

Even if the plates are shattered,
unusable,
ruined,
just clear away the shards
sweep them into the trash,
laugh out loud and
bring new plates to be filled,
not when you finally force these
young ones to eat,
but whenever it happens that they are ready,
whenever they choose to settle in,
to reach out and serve themselves.