some
times
trauma.
resurfaces like wreckage from forgotten ocean floors — rusted and heavy.
slowly rising and displacing all that lies in its path — disrupting the stillness of the shoreline to remind us that it has always been there. settled. sitting.
maybe it’s time to explore it?
this, beautiful wreckage.
sunken treasures have been found in more treacherous places — why should the memories and psychological remnants of yesteryear be any different?
why can’t there be treasure here, too?
why not, in me?
N. J. Simmons 