In the days before child abuse
I’d hang in mid-air
dangling from my arm
like some monkey screeching,
hoisted from seated,
and as I flew, a shoulder
popping in pain
for the first of what would be three
times that year,
I knew my reluctant bones
would punish you,
deem you unfit
for some unshared secret
which even then had dislocated
and bound us.


3 thoughts on “Dislocations

  1. I don’t know which was more painful – being jerked into the vivid experience of the child’s body, which I felt with every word – or the anger that still sizzles in the heart and in the memory of shoulder tissues as it tries to devour the initial cry: am I not good enough to be loved? Tell your cells, tell your DNA, tell every minute particle of your being that yes, yes, you are good enough and you are loved and you are an AMAZING poet.

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