Wednesday Poem: "I Could Be a Wave"

I'm not the first

The story of this poem: I’m working on a prose memoir in the tradition of What My Bones Know and I’m Glad My Mom Died. I find myself wondering if the world needs yet another collection of tales from a lady who had a weird childhood. I think it does.

I COULD BE A WAVE
a meditation on c-ptsd

I’m not the first.
Is the story is worth telling?
Does a wave question its worth,
Or join the tide that’s rising?

I could be a brick in a wall.
I could be a flower on a grave.
I could be a knife in a block.
I could be a wave.

I’m not the first.
Unoriginal, or part of tradition?
As a baby, I played in the dirt.
I cleaned up my act, gained some vision.

I could be a student in class.
I could be a tree in the park.
I could be a girl who shakes her perfect ass,
Who only goes out after dark.

I'm not the first.
My memory's true.
Some had it worse.
We all made it through.