They don’t come back like you think they will,
the memories.
Not like flashing images in a kids’ flipbook
or photos in a faded album, or an 8mm home movie.
Bruises on shoulders, swollen genitals
skin eyeshadow blue and concord-grape purple
arm frozen into an L for for days together
pain that you have not known even in childbirth
drowning in terror without end.
And always always the infernal itching on your back
which you cannot reach, or get respite from.
