Member Poem

It Doesn’t Matter

After Laure-Anne Bossaleaar 

The man who looks
past the rot in me
pulls me close,
strokes my hair,
carefully, like I’m
an egg. We sit
in silence,
waiting for  
tremors to stop.

I want to tell him
how sorry I am,
that on the one
night I don’t have
to work and we
get to sleep in
the same bed
I ruin it--
kicking, hitting,
yelling in my sleep.

It doesn’t matter
how many years
and therapy sessions
we go through: the
trauma slips
through when I
feel most safe. 

I turn and face him,
place a hand on
his cheek. It’s not
your fault, honey.
He places his hand
over mine, I place
mine over his and
it goes on this way.