poem-

It hurt to try and open it.
So, I did what I’ve always done
and went to a pub to read a book.
Only this time, I was in the book.
The bar was full so I stood in the corner
and ordered a dark beer.
The noise from the many conversations
faded, as they always do when I read,
but when I touched the book it felt electric.
“Here I am,” I thought. “About to read my own story.”
But I couldn’t do it. I opened the book to page 62.
Hell, I even took a picture.
But I couldn’t read my short story.
I couldn’t even get beyond the second line.
I’m not sure why. I don’t know what happened.
I’ll most likely read all the others and never read mine.

-M. Taggart

 

book view

Poem –

I’m addicted to my son’s safety.
I think it’s possible that I’m constantly
thinking about his health and safety
because of my own childhood trauma-
of which he does not have.
Maybe it’s time I let images
of him laughing and running,
with his gleaming eyes and bouncing hair,
flood my thoughts. My trauma is not his.
I need to remember this and to be
better about it. I have such a deep
connection, and love for my son, that I can’t
fathom how any parent or guardian
couldn’t. And there I go, not being
better about it. Back to him running,
and laughing, and being loved.

-M. Taggart