If now is not the time
to excavate sixty years of hurt
buried deep in the soil of my psyche
not the time to expose the sediment of slights
layers of disregard and indifference
stratified and fragile as puff pastry
when do you suggest is the time?
I’ve got my shovel and gloves
even a mattock if needed
to hack away the weeds
so that we can dig down deep
through the roots
to where it began
on the day I was born,
my defective heart in need of repair
and first felt unloved by you.
Just tell me when.
The Southern Quill, Issue 72, 2023
Elise Chadwick 