by L.M. Browning, an except from Drive Through the Night, a collection forthcoming late 2020.
The patterns of the trauma align
across the memories of our mind
—inescapable—a black-hole of being.
8,947 miles later, I know now why
you refuse the say the names
of those dead-to-you-yet-still-breathing
—afraid as you are of the monsters
are still under the bed—
yet in the silence, you give them immortality
Your ghastly ghosts—so cannibalistic in kind—
ate me alive while the little girl in you
daydreamed above the screams
of a life where
I was wrong
and you were right.
Recent Poetry Posts
Ride this life hard
we might outrun the sun
and not see the sight awaiting
in the bare daylight
I hear the voice of god in the hum of the neon sign at the rest stop, where the caravan of displaced desperadoes and expats post-up for the bottomless cup of coffee….