So, whoever said pain is inevitable 
and suffering is an option 
must have never sat 
in a church house semi-circle clutching 
the Twelve Steps pamphlet like 
a batch of white roses, 
or felt obligated to let insult 
skid off their brains 
like poorly aimed 
ball peen hammers, 
must never have seen pass 
some stranger’s funeral parade 
and bore the burgeoning yelp 
in their own throats, 
the one poised in parturition, 
ready for delivery. 

To be sure they 
must never have mulled 
Edvard Munch’s pastel 
captured in the vicinity 
of a slaughterhouse 
and a lunatic asylum 
overlooking Oslo, 
maybe inspired by an 1889 Exposition 
Universelle mummy on display 
in Paris, which had been buried 
in a fetal position, the hands alongside the face. 
Notice the tumultuous background, 
compliments of an orangey 
red sky inspired by 
a helpful nearby volcano. 
All our screams 
are like the eruption of Krakatoa. 
All are inspirations for paintings, 
if sound could be painted, 
and if sound could be painted 
The Scream would be the Mona Lisa 
of all lost tribes sitting in a circle, 
on folding chairs. 

Bio: Dorie LaRue