It’s been a long time since I fell asleep

with my mother’s fingers in my hair.

On the border between awake

and asleep, I can imagine

I’m a baby again,

young and new and without scars.

Part of me thinks I’m dreaming

when I hear my mother’s voice

trickle through, but I’m not:

I read that anger can grow

of trauma. That it can turn

a human into a volcano.

I want you to know I’m here.

It’s okay to be angry.

I can stand your lava.

I’m glad my eyes are closed.

Open, I might cry,

and I’m not ready

for anything

that doesn’t

burn.