Saturday, March 03, 2012


Survivor’s guilt, they call this
and right away, when the strongholds start to give,
I do feel selfish for surviving, for this seeming
interminable ability to grieve as if
these wounds are all still raw years
later, for this crazy-making wish
to please trade places with those who
protected me, the people I can no longer return
that--or any--favor to.


I invoke their memories & the avalanche
resumes, eroding any settled ground, when my guilt—
my guilt is a comparative luxury, triggered
by the mere act of speaking
their names, the guilt
shaping itself into a strangled silent howl, the
guilt that pushes back on me later in
this ragged stream I must

turn away from
to survive--cannot say, cannot see anyone
because there is no one
who can change it.


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