Never wanted to be a victim. Yet i’d sit on the winding balcony jackknife and lighter in my hand with other women and men supplicating wounds by engendering more wounds. It was a way of being for to a point like deathrow dogs or human innocents we had been gutted: of the organs from which voice sourced its grit of cattail pain gathers on roadside.
But never wanted to be seen as victim by self by other. We told. Some compared; what’s that i’0d say. Doesnt matter how many pounds the corrupt hours or minutes or eons seen passing from padlocked closets — the cargo will snap more than a hunt’s fox.
You’d given up on the world a man said. Later. Lazarus. Wheelchairs of the heart. You thought the world had given up on you. Do you know what it means, to fill your body with rusted stopsigns inherited from heroes. Boated shoreward Normandy beaches of Okinawa carrying the boats with engine or red paddle upon their backs some were heroes gouged of speech some were other, gouging speech themselves. Wound jackknife fire set to skin peeling as by sun. Set packs on isolationism shores wanting touch wanting to learn how how to dream again.
Well. Our war was different. Different tools different faces different kinds of dying. Some had no witnesses beyond themselves and were denied. Others gathered testimony testaments video and poem and walked foreward somehow redeemed even redeeming not sought vindicator vindication.
I wasnt a victim. Not in the end. As a kid violence laced my soul white white. The dolphin has a final prosthetic hybrid that she used uses to help her traverse what the sea has become. I had have that thing called love. Joplin sang the Rose and i seek sought a boat like my father’s a dog like my fathers’ but more language than he had ever known. The ocean saved me.