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Poetry

Out of the Pit
by Kate Meyer-Currey
This time I didn’t dig my own grave 
with my bare hands as they looked 
on and willed me to jump right in.
I let them keep the shovel and do 
the job themselves. It was a hard
lesson but well-learned. I’ve been 
buried alive too many times before. 
Unspoken truths choke like clods of 
earth. Frustration scratches at life’s 
coffin lid until your nails wear down 
to nothing. You bite your tongue in 
half and drown in your own blood. 
Your screams are silent because 
they are deaf, dumb and blind to 
your reality. But not this time. For 
this time, you were only dormant 
in that shallow grave. You saw the 
sky and the trees and the hands 
that reached down to clasp yours
and pull you out, to wipe the tears 
and mud from your face and walk 
beside you in the light of shared 
experience, beyond silence, and 
out of shame’s void. It’s hard to 
step out into the sun when you’ve 
been burned. Shadows feel safer.
But in the slow adjustment, your 
bones straighten and you walk 
tall again, as warmth returns. It
gets easier, just as every word I 
drag from the chasm of past pain 
and struggle, frees me to speak 
with greater clarity as my rage 
ebbs into realisation that I used 
them to dig myself out, not bury 
myself deeper. So what if I’m 
walking wounded? At least I’m
still walking. Not stumbling into 
another ditch where liars wallow 
like hippos, talking dirt, eyes 
bulging and ears twitching, ogling 
fresh prey for their stick in the
mud jaws to swallow whole. Let 
them sink while I walk across 
the water, skimming like a stone, 
where no moss clings.
Penumbra @ Stan State
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