This is a PTSD poem and a tribute to Mary, a wonderful old lady I was privileged to meet many years ago. Mary was elegant, stunning, delicate, and fierce.
Mary – PTSD Poem
They say a bomb hit the hospital where nurse Mary was working
during the Second World War. Her frail body is still trembling,
her mind blown to pastures afar, her hunch back and scrawny
legs dancing on the streets of Dublin, sock in hand stuffed to
the brim with coins gifted by passersby doing their good deed
for the day until the stocking gets snatched by a herd of unruly
youths with nothing better to do.
In the evenings, Mary gets her dinner at the shelter where she
resides and sings old hymns, unscrews the lid of the coffee jar,
dips in a spoon and proceeds to sprinkle the granules across the
floor tracing delicate steps whispering "set them free, set them
free." Sometimes, she sows mashed potatoes or baked beans,
yesterday, she unchained demerara sugar, delighted.
Only locked doors at night or a hot bath she doesn't want to have
stoke and lay bare Mary's raw muscle, sharp nails, and sirens,
extinguish her grace, her soft glow and glint. Once soaking
among bubbles, the shower hose helps Mary set free a flood of
drops. After the bath, she's still and sips lemon tea, converses
until it's time to be gone again.
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