Poetry

Inter generational trauma

The Mother said, it is true that

I am better in the evening,

the morning energy was virulent,

harnessed to limbic structures,

A ferrel appendage to an otherwise perfect facade.

So, when the time comes make sure

you create something solid,

which will sit there at the table with you in the evening,

as a truth known to itself.

Not as a vessel to be teased with life

Drip drip dripping uncertainty in increments ,

A gradually rising tide.

Instead see from the start

A childs mistakes are empty ,

we are inherently good.

Or risk creation of a visceral vacant lot

whose body holds a catalogue of despair-

So when the ball is thrown at them,

they absorb the form as it

bounces in side, scattering thoughts,

vibrating here and what came before.

Past and present clattering together

reminding them only of now

and what they are in this moment

There in the past.