#triage
They ask you again and again,
What happened? Tell me the whole story
And you repeat yourself
Each time thinking it’s been received
But then a new ear, a new clipboard,
And they make you tell it again.
“What happened” becomes more important
Than “what’s happening now?”
Because they care about the mechanism
More than the injury
So what will they do when you go radio silent?
When your heart breaks do you need to rehash how he hurt you,
Again and again for each secondary witness?
At what point does the sordid story end
And the sequel begin?
Or will the pursuit of healing,
The treating of trauma,
Forever be defined by
the mechanism of injury?
Sep 10, 2023
Sep 10, 2023 at 3:12 AM UTC
Concealing more than revealing,
Forgetting more than remembering,
Talking much, saying little.
The triage of truth.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:03 PM UTC
A loose wool-knit sweater had holes in the pattern,
through which her skin was visible both above and below
the dark sports-bra wore stretched across her *******
I could see the thin straps draped over her collarbones,
and thought about the lines they leave in her skin.
Yoga pants squeezed her legs underneath of thigh-high socks,
and both were layered below tall leather boots with low heels.
An olive green fatigue jacket hung open around her and
was adorned with a colorful scarf that lay claim to her neck,
its tassels curled and bounced with each step she took
mirroring precisely the loose curls in her fair hair.
Finger-less gloves left her free to feel the texture of the
pages she turned one by one in a book pulled from the shelf.
She had sat down right in the aisle, planting herself in front of
the poetry section inside of a crowded Barnes and Nobles.
Sitting there with such an elegance, I lack the words for it,
completely unnoticed and free from the numerous
holiday shoppers that were carefully stepping over her,
books in their own arms, and heading for the cash registers.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 3:36 PM UTC