In manners of fight or flight,
I'd prefer to flow, like words from womb,
opening out to the muddy flush of cheek.
I watched the shipwreck of myself along a dirty floor
covered in blood and liquor, covered in
ashes. I waited for that response within me
that told me I ought to be alright.

My mother is all the colors of autumn,
the summertime scent of blonde hair,
pink number 527, against her rounded shape
in the flicker of light. She wears an apron
and isn't afraid to get her hands dirty.
We drive along the Rocky Mountains and
we never turn to look back.

In the flourescent lights, I picture him:
large frame, stubble, a mass of rough fingers
pacing the length of my skin. I wait for him
to move first, in the stretch of muscle
I call my self. I provide apologies and answers
but he never questions. I cannot answer
with words.

My hands shake, mouth presses phrases
with a smile. I make a mental effigy to burn
whenever I cannot. My heart is pinewood,
circled by the foliage of me. There is a forest fire
in each of my cells. I laugh, and no one notices
that I never sleep, and I blow glass to wish away
every thought.

07/05/2007

Author's Note: This is the only poem I attempted to write in the past two years about a traumatic event that happened to me in April of 2007. I recently recovered it from files I thought I'd lost.

Posted on 07/17/2009
Copyright © 2024 Lacey Smith