The Women in My Family are Drowning
A case study in the gravity of trauma – heartbreak as legacy
THE WOMEN IN MY FAMILY ARE DROWNING
as if reflex, the kind of desire we all inherit.
A compulsion twitching in the limbs, between teeth — a need to run
off piers into shameless blue. There is no shame in escaping
this way. Of course, the drowning is just a metaphor —
another way of expressing smaller tragedies. The tremble of a hand
as it moves to light a candle. Wanton flame stumbling,
useless as it misses a wick. Once, I found my mother
her skin bloated, hazardous blue. Once, I found myself
bruise black and blistering. Trauma warping girl
into ghost — sudden stranger. Grief striking so often, shifting into
ordinary. Dead women walking. Dead women walking.
About the Creator
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