What I’ve Learned About Trauma
It isn’t as easy as being
Something That Happened to You
a package you opened once.
You will wake up in a new ZIP code
have to wander your way home,
carry a few of the things you love to this new place
you live in now.
& so you buy throw pillows.
You put up twinkle lights & have a big celebration,
point at the open windows
& tell everyone who has ever seen you crying –
look how I have not caged myself.
look what I have made out of two paint buckets
and the blessing of my still-here body.
but, of course,
trauma leans into the bar cart.
Spills a drink on the new rug.
Breaks off the door handle on his way out.
Trauma sends you letters
for the rest of your life,
usually disguised as something else –
a medical bill, maybe,
or a box of photo albums packaged up by your father,
just so you remember
trauma knows exactly where you live—
who did you think built the house?