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Monday, April 23, 2018

Imaginal Discs

 
—from Judith Herman's Trauma and Recovery


One survives the desire of another. Another aspect forms.
The brother trolls. The brother fathers. The brother still

born. Still I saw the teenager every day, his twisted gait. My
friend didn’t speak to me for a year, mad I disappeared to

play with ———. I am surrounded by brothers. A filament
glows like a match absorbing flame, it continues well into

its darkness. One has grown tired of repetition. One is in
awe of longterm romance. The year I threw myself out

of the bedroom, images of my family piled up in a corner.
The year of zoloft. Someone else’s bedroom I stunk up, I

yellowed the foam. I am surrounded by hotlines. Call back
in the morning. It always went that my dad drove an errand

with a gun to his head. In the film he’d be credited Hostage
because one would be all it would take to send a message.

The year my nose bled from panic. The brother edits his
comment. My mom opened the door, home at the wrong

time. The year my hair fell out the side of one head. When
will I bore of repetition. The year I loved so hard the decade

pressed me into a pillow. So many teenage boys. The hardons
of stoners bishoped in the night to me. The hymen cooled

in the snow. The hymen dry as my wits in the classic night
I was driven away. The teenage boy sits me down to lecture,

presses himself in. The year of out of order. When will repetition
bore through me. Why. They needed to die in a narrative way.

2 comments:

Radish King said...

Complete and utter gut punch. Thank you Oh thank you.
Rebecca

bloof said...

Yes, me too. (And I need to read this Herman book.)