edition #2 - from Zohie

 

The Loop.


Panic.

Not now, not now— I will go over there, that spot— looks better,

than, here.

The door closed, I am in the hallway. 

My hand meets the wall,

steady,

the phone, I must find the phone

— cord,

she took it,

splinters in my fingernails— pulling

happy face,

to get to the other side, that spot—

looks better,

a shield—

for my siblings.

Inhale, exhale— into the paper bag.

Home now, he said, 

I am going home now.

Breadcrumbs surrounding my feet.

I notice birds,

I slice a razor across my finger,

splinters, peeling—

avoidance, of the present moment—

hide, don’t breathe.

Yoga.

pockets of tension

memory

the joints are the messengers of the body

channels blocked by

trauma 

allow the vibration to vacate

like a dusty shoebox

opening to reveal the treasures you

lost, the 

awareness

of your own

two legs

which hold you up in space.

a miracle.

Do I, have value?

Please tell me my life has 

meaning— tell me my pain has, purpose.

a peg in the sand.

The structure of houses we visit as children,

reoccur throughout our dreams.

Life is malleable— so are words.

You can change that sentence, Zohie, if you don’t like it 

(remember).

You can change your mind.

You can change.

a peg in the sand. Entropic.

I am grateful to my trauma.

Trauma is a block, and also a shield.

Our coping mechanisms keep us alive.

I am grateful to my trauma.

It blocked the absorption of convention.

I look back,

on my years of abandon

with awe— at the courage I held— to follow my heart,

to unravel its expression.

I am grateful to my trauma,

as the journey of growing through it

has taught me to see, clear

the opaque becomes translucent

the illusion of separation,

drops—

They say we choose our parents 

— at birth

which means I am no victim,

but an alchemist,

transforming discarded fragments, into— 

gold.

The glow emanating from the kitchen

door,

the bottle in the door—

there is none left

empty— silence.

eat, while there is time,

quickly,

before there is none left

hold the cup out the window,

to collect raindrops.

Children, something about children,

Finite, something about the infinite.

When the steps of my day are taken beneath 

an umbrella,

of dream memories—

Not fantasies, but real memories of what I was told

during my sleep,

there is tranquility beneath my soles.

I am a grain of sand, 

rising in the opalescence

of the oyster shell.

The size of the super-moon over Oslo— 

some context as to where I am in the world, 

internally and externally, 

— north

so close to my heart,

like it somehow knew how to unlock itself.

This morning,

an abalone shell lined with mother of pearl 

held my offering—

to the only mother I can offer, 

the ground beneath my feet.

“I let you kids run wild while you were young, 

as I figured, 

you can knock a spirit out, but you can’t knock it in,”

said my father.

Knock, knock, knock!

I am closing the door, 

I am choosing to look up.

We can change our stories.

When I started to notice birds,

I realised, i’d begun to look up.


With love,




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Zohie Castellano