Trauma Work
It’s a long one
the road back to ease
back to not walking past the mirror
with closed eyes
and not flinching
in the eyes
of another.
It’s a long slow walk
a crawl really
coming home
along the gnarled roads
and labyrinths of mind
the booby traps I lay for
myself
unworthiness recited as prayer
and the horrible way
I don’t even realize I’m doing it.
The hard part is not
speeding up
when I catch a glimpse
of that glowing golden front door
forgetting that it’s speed
that got me lost in the first place.
The hard part
is letting myself be found
then lost
then found
and lost again
inching through darkness
on my knees
knowing
this is
just
how
it
is.
It’s a strange thing
watching my body age
and what I thought the advent
of gray hair would mean
while I time travel back
through the bad neighborhoods
of my heart
to find the lost children
and catch their tears.
Humility, humus;
dirt deep knowing
of my own fleeting life
my end
and the impossibility
of finding any other path
than the one I’m on,
wandering
walking
the wounds I thought were me
back
to their waiting
grave.
Trust, I’m told
as if there’s another choice
but to say
yes
yes I will claim this life
lostness and all
hauntings and all
and build a patience so true
a real smile will grow
will have to have to grow
from the debris.