What is it, to live this way–
dressed in fear, devouring it,
living upon it, wrapping myself
in its adrenaline-warmth when I shiver?



How can I touch my body
with trembling child-hands
and remember-imagine, ‘yes,
here it was, here, in this place–



this is the terrain of my suffering,
this is the geography of my trauma.’



No scarred earth to weep upon,
no sure and solid place outside
of my own skin, the limits of
my certainty, the border of
the torn nation which is myself,
liberated in the autonomy which is



containment, my blood no longer
overspilling into cupped, welcoming
palms, into spectral mouths, only

​

I here
god-reared
hollow-fleshed
and quiet.