Old Wound

I dreamed last night
about a little girl,
she was my daughter,
but by the end
of course,
she was me.

In my dream,
my mother –
she and I
trade chairs
so that I am sitting closest
to the little girl.

The man is on the stand.
This is the time
to put him away.

I hold
the blond girl’s hands and she
holds mine and this time,
I am the one asking the questions.

Yes and yes and yes, she says
through the tears
and the nodding.

Those tears,
already on my pillow
in the dark.

Sorrow
cracks me open
in the dark house,
alone.

Perhaps it is about innocence,
or the body’s cellular longing
for resolution,
or maybe
it’s about how we
give pieces of ourselves,
and how others
take them away,
and how thirty-three years later,
in the dark hours before the sunrise,
we are still allowed
to want them back.

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2 thoughts on “Old Wound

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