Don’t call it returning.
When you erupt
from clinging
aisle floor
& nucleus
on bloody milk
glass & shattered
screen & incoming
familiar tones
they mute
while shoving
a warm thing in your loose
grasp. Don’t call it nothing
lasts or
a choice:
feed or fast.
It won’t let you eat your own body.
It keeps you walking when you need to
run to keep your heart
from hearing
footsteps
too heavy
& too close & estranged.
It plots & covets & maims.
Yearns to obliterate you from this earth.
All place. & elsewhere. As if you could try
to best. Or give
chase. Flashback isn’t a right name. It’s never
singular. It’s never the same. Even when it rushes & rams
again. You are now its explicit particulars
without pinpointing
where & how &
when.
Trauma feels
too much
like past tense. They mean
well when they say
it takes time.
You know it takes
time.
It’s not the same
effacing
you are
facing.
It isn’t
the same kind
of
taking.
Editors Note: “Poet Wrestling with the Taking of Time” has been altered to fit storySouth‘s online format. You can read the poem in it’s original form here: Poet Wrestling with the Taking of Time by ROSEBUD BEN-ONI