You Don't See Me

He leapt on to the bus
proclaiming his presence
with a voice loud as orange,
urgent as cavalry trumpets.
Gathering air and space to himself
like a protective blanket
he claimed filial relationship
to Our Father whose kingdom will come,

his dervish words swirling around him.

As grey-coated hearts lowered their eyes,

the storm of his words subsided
and the air around him calmed.
But then in a clear distinct voice he said,

You don't see me, but I am here.

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In the middle of the night
The fear that grips my throat

wrenches me gasping from sleep

as the violent memories
snap and circle -
broken glass,
raised hand,
blood on the cupboards -

resonating in the present to say,

You don't see me, but I am here.

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But as the memories surface I release them.

Like balloons

they float up and disappear

into the blue beyond,

and I gather together

the shattered fragments of my self,
the self that still whispers as if to reassure,

You don't see me, but I am here. 


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