You sit in my kitchen and talk about clearing my shit away,/ my holes and pinkass habits/ as a two-month old, and now./ My body freezes and softens at the same time/ as you speak of it, /becoming white putty or cut pig/ (bastey flesh losing the tense, the bony verb)
I love this poem and the picture you chose for it. It creates a double experience from the past and the present with the present repeating the past and the feelings of the past affecting the present as they are re-created. A very clear experience of trauma emerges and deserves compassion and healing. Beautiful work rooted in truth.
Your upbringing and mine might share more than one weird HS. "I could kill you and make another one like you," my dad told me.
The power of one over another is so blatant here... Sad and enraging.
I love this poem and the picture you chose for it. It creates a double experience from the past and the present with the present repeating the past and the feelings of the past affecting the present as they are re-created. A very clear experience of trauma emerges and deserves compassion and healing. Beautiful work rooted in truth.