Trauma Sandwich

I have been so busy with work. Right now I am juggling two jobs as I continue my regular public health role and then split that with being a Disaster Service Worker for our COVID response team. Been thinking about trauma and how much more some humans have to bear than others. How this affects every corner of our lives. I know now that trauma doesn’t have to dictate my path in life nor is it a determinant of my potential. But having trauma, understanding the bruised parts of myself that have healed and those I am still nurturing allows me to be kinder to others. And even more than that, it allows me to see the potential in even the most hurt souls. (Except Trump— fuck that guy!)

Fifth House

“I want to be a writer,” I told the moon.

And the sides of her lips twinkled against the depth of blackness

in an anxious abyss

This sheet of blue-black midnight illuminated my skull

and carried my message like winter turning to spring

And the adult who wished for better childhood memories

vomited failures until the liquid turned clear as the moon

Our reverie was here in the wood shed,

in the grass sprinkled with dog shit,

on the deck suckling obliteration

I realized I wanted to live and

grown-up words, like “be sensible,” had slapped me across the face

Thrusted silly wishing into molds of sacrifice and safety

I left the chill to nest inside a green electric blanket

Fed of its warmth and effortless comfort

Eased into sleep, into a familiar daze

of success and never-ending contentment

with green pools of grass and smiling moons

In the summertime when I was a child

with screaming hands

and a dangerous mouthful of dreams.