TRAUMA THEORY, BY AUDREY GIDMAN |
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Forgive me, I have been this body. Forgive me, I have seen so much. This body knows. I think I am a tree made of hands. I think I can’t get empty enough to know what I’m dealing with. This body is a drought of mast years. Let me begin again: here is a girl kneeling. Here is a girl on her knees. A girl on her knees in the dark. She can’t remember—a shadow that disappears—she can’t remember why the dark scares her. She tries for years. Owls outside the window. Birch & sycamore scratching glass. Her skin a tired storm. Forgive me, I have seen this story a thousand times. Forgive me, how do I write this poem differently next time? The owls have gone home. But home is what? A body a prayer for a clean break. A body a tired storm. Forgive me—there is no clean break. War has a smell: forgive me. There are owls in this poem somewhere. A girl on her knees afraid of windows. The window is shut. The window is a window made of hands. A body kneeling. She knows the storm by the inside of its name. She forgets herself. No—forgive me—I forget what I came here to say. |
Audrey Gidman is a queer poet living in Maine. Her poems can be found or are forthcoming in SWWIM, Wax Nine, The Inflectionist Review, The Shore, Rogue Agent, ang(st), Doubleback Review, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, body psalms, winner of the Elyse Wolf Prize, is forthcoming from Slate Roof Press. Twitter // @audreygidman