Have been unearthing the boxes
of my subconscious, clearing ill-
cast tales, intent on an end goal –
restitution at very least, but
my sister, no stomach for process,
wants to suction up the guck –
impatient for a quick cleanse –
plugs the workings: therapy,
a finicky machine, falters,
water oozes between cracks;
we are flooded by mutual
wounds, personal emoting
ankle-deep in truths neither
can bear, waders, all thoughts
of sanctity dissolving, and I
espy cobwebs forming, corners
once cleansed – dysfunction’s
mockery of hope – reminder
that when roots are rotten,
scars are reluctant to heal.
