Trampolining Above the Trauma Shed

Inverted hopscotch rituals configure coal-black evenings,
in the splinter shed.
Imaginary friends flee with their toys to the fir trees
where her upstairs heart belongs,
away from the splinter shed,
away from the trauma shed,
where silence grows a backbone
upon damp modulations of broken trust.

 

 

 

 

 

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