Breathing into...

He used to be quick to anger,

                                        Though that's something you'd never know.

I looked at him, disbelieving,

                        And this made him want to laugh—

Remembering 

fist-and-forehead cracked walls,

                            Old scars still inside, half mast—

As he studied my lost eyes

                       Asking oddly, “Where

                                                                              Did your anger go?”

                                                 Looking up and to the side, 

he Hmm'd

Remembering first where his anger  

 was from:

                       That tournament or test, 

or confusion that

        felt like a threat in his chest.

His fear called to anger

  “Come.”

He looks back in my eyes,

Remembering where his anger 

went:

                            To guilt after violence; 

to slowing a pulse,

Watching others'     kindred rage      in silence—

Being with           my   

        fearful eyes, 

         not-

against.