by L.M. Browning, an except from Drive Through the Night
The patterns of the trauma align
across the memories of our mind
—inescapable—a blackhole of being.
8,947 miles later, I know now why
you refuse the say the names of those
—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.
I have become
one of the names you can’t say
—I, the one who pulled back the sheets.
Recent Poetry Posts
What are we to do, we who require silence in a world of deafening din? The far-lung corners being as far as they are, where shall we carry ourselves?
The perfect, plumb ground too easy and expected bears no liking for those beings without wings but for whom heights hold draw.
Gathering dust in the mantle spun particles of God in chain formed the milky way.