As a child, a teen
I swam in tears of trauma
until my spirit rebelled
at the drowning line.
Chasing last place
in a swamp filled
with tossed stones
Poe taught me to breathe
with pen and paper.
Through a pinhole in a nightmare
words bled into light and
I began to feel fledgling freedom.
In April’s month of words I hear
the child, the adolescent sing of roots
and crows and know even if the ink is bleak
it lights another candle to dispel my darkness.
©Susie Clevenger 2017