Traumata: Abyss crosses Surface

 Trauma: open wound: torn flesh: 

Something in me, not me: things past. 

Is it my mother or my father? 

Is it one, none, you, me, it? 

I become it. 

And the depth of it surfaces 

and resurfaces. 

Time-space and all cursive realities are stuck, 

summing up, obeying an abnormal geometry. 

I did nothing. It just happened. 

Or else my deeds were not-me, not-actions, 

but passions inflicted by extreme powers. 

Deeds merge with events, powers from outside disjointing, dismembering, disarticulating the body of capable beginnings. 

Me is thus magnitude of sufferings, no longer home of origin. Estrangement and alteration 

happen, abound, rule, without a proper line 

interweaving a sense of 

beginning and a sense of 

ending and a sense of 

flowing 

in between. 

Estrangement and alteration because there is no 

shared sense of navigation whose tempests would be nothing 

but life-expanding, life-nourishing, peripeteias to be named and storied, and eventually celebrated with all brothers, demonstrated to all, reenacted with dance.

Trauma: open wound: torn flesh:

the flesh between skin and bone, torn deep.

Too much. 

What I can bear breaks; 

what I can understand breaks with it.

No sense holds. No thread holds.

The texture comes apart.