Trauma

Like a dead body anchored

In the bottom of my belly

Is where all the trauma of

My

Life

Sits.

It moves, bobbing silently

Pulsating as my digestion

Desperately attempts to

Flush

It

Down.

Shifting minutely

Stifling my inability

To lose the spare tire of

Anxiety

Around

My belly.

I can feel a new shifting

The dead lump lifting up

To my conscious surface

I cough

Outbursts

Of anger

And tears.

The measure of vulnerability

Coming up and out of me

Is the corpse breaking apart?

Loosing

The anchor

Free.

© Isabel Alvear, April 2019