Generational Trauma
After carrying the weight of all this damage
for over thirty years, I wanted to be rid of it.
And not just the smell of it—all of it.
To remove it from my body like a malignant
growth or parasite. To deposit it in into
something: a jar, a forgotten account,
someone else’s body. To throw the shame
away. Into the trash. Into the ocean. Into a fire.
To archive the pain like slave schedules or
census records that no longer spoke of my
existence. This poem is a scar that reveals the
onceness of a wound, a curated show in which
joy, bitterness, and unknown patrons attend.
It is an elegy to mourn the parts that were
shamefully discarded like scraps and a song
to celebrate the vibrant parts that still remain.
It is unsolicited advice stuffed back into the
throat. It is a how-to book misplaced on the
shelf. It is an old family map passed down
from great-grandmother to grandmother.
My father told me to go this way. I didn’t
listen, thank god. What can one do when it
was her own father who once used the same
map and found only the weight of all his
damage at the end of the road? Too tired to
turn back, he built his house there: a wife in
the kitchen, two children at the end of a
leather belt, a small dog crying in the yard.
I ran away from home and found men who
ate deliciously at the good corners of my
body. I ran away from home where we were
predators and weapons and the wounded.
We became fluent in the small-necked
language of control, our house illuminated
with gaslight. Was it because we were the
daughters of a mother who told us, “At least
he provides for us”? Was it because we grew
up wishing that one day he wouldn’t come
home? Was it because men took us and ruined
us, and our parents—reminded of their own
taking and ruin—turned away in shame?
Rather than chew on the answers, rather than
revisit that house, I will lay it all here, in this
poem, and pretend it never happened: my
body, my parents, the men. I will bury it
under the fruit filling—I am mother now.
Everything must be sweet. Everything must
be perfect, clean. This poem, too. Still,
I hope my children read it. I hope they see
themselves reflected in the fine print. I hope
they know it’s not their fault.
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