Injury hangs like weighted shrouds,
cloaked, hoarded,
maintained, worshipped in secret.
Curtains drawn down in defiance with darkness.
Injury materializes through years.
Through mother’s milk,
Through father’s shaky hand.
It transcends generation . . .
Sticking its nose in
Where everyone has forgotten
Injury needs a summit,
A reckoning. It needs
To be reopened, stitches torn
A gash here, a breach there,
A gnashing of teeth and snarl.
Injury needs to bleed its bile,
needs to scour its wound with pumice stone.
To lie in the stifling air, to desiccate,
to be picked to the bone.
It needs to feel the deluge and the thunder.
But we, we keep it nice.
Smile when spoken to.
Swallow the raging vomit.
Keep the curtains closed and drawn.
Inflict more damage to
our collective entrails
And weep alone, in bitterest darkness.
Just Carrie 
Wow! So much here and so beautifully said. So much injury maintained in secret and how to open and cleanse.
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Breathtaking, cellular desscription of the truth of things, Carrie. Thank you!
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Carrie, you are so thoughtful and articulate. Such a provocative poem.
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“we keep it nice”
Yes. Always the niceness. Most of the time, it makes us forget to weep.
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Very moving poem Carrie.
I feel the pain in it.
Interesting to note: I just finished a story called, “Tell Me Where It Hurts.”
Will forward to you when fully edited.
Love,
O.
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Oh yes! Please forward it!
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WOW! Carrie–this is a powerful, brutal poem. And then the turn…what we need and what we don’t do. What we’ve been so carefully taught to not do/say/feel/be. Thank you.
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Brilliant!! Your words and simple imaginary had such an impact on me that I didn’t want the poem to end.
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Only beginning to know you, my love.
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