Dystonia All night I watch as the rain collects inside of things left out on the porch some god above tossing out her empties from the sky I think of my mother her ache a million miles long and a century deep there is a moment when the word you want to use uses you and a body too wrecked in on itself so long ago the mileage on it has become the soul a family on a highway a small girl goes through a window and is never again the same and before that so many hands being put where they ought not I tell you the body’s memory is ruthless there is a dream I have where she is no longer hurting where her ribs are not crashing into her lungs like waves and she doesn’t have to flail her arms to be heard she does not drown in a goddamn thing she takes to the lighthouse finds all the other versions of herself drags them up from the undertow places them by her side says; let’s ride her body is her own she . doesn’t . move . a . muscle and it’s a...
Like the title says.