I’d like to get rid of this trauma that I have,
that pulls me under some nights, tightens me up
and causes me to reach for breath
like someone who’s stayed underwater for too long.
Who wants to be around a guy like that?
says a voice inside me, brushing a worry into me
like a shoulder in a dark room.
I’m not sure anyone does, I say back.
But there’s got to be something good about
feeling so down, don’t you think,
something that breaks out of that reenactment
and glistens like a golden egg from an old stone
dropped on the floor of an ancient tomb?
There has to be, otherwise there’d never be
that twenty-four karat feeling of being yourself
As a kid I used to sit in an old crate underneath
our mobile home, and in the darkness I’d just
peer over the top of it with this combined look
of anger and shock.
That’s what abandonment looks like.
I still catch myself wearing that look on my face
sometimes when I walk by the mirror,
or when a friend takes a candid and later on
texts it to me.