Spaghetti Night: a PTSD Story

Spaghetti Night: a PTSD Story
by Knight Quinn
art by artist unknown. Source here.

“A grown man
with mom issues…”
they say.
No. I
say. They never have
to. I’m dog(woo)d or
(will)ow when oak, or worse,
magnolia is de(man)ded-
I k(no)w the quality of
the pruning shear’s edge,
learned so well how to sharpen
before I could interfere with
power-lines, rooted, in
the shape of the
tree that grows the switches-
the threat far more violent
than the use.

I’ve wondered what
the voice of Harry
Potter’s therapist would
sound like, or if she
ever asked about cupboards
before signing off on
another sequel-
No Threat of Harm to
Himself or Others
stamped on his dossier

while I have a panic attack
because we’re out of napkins;
my son’s face is covered with
spaghetti sauce
and he’s about to
use his shirt sleeve when

we assess harm by
the scars we can count
when harm is re-living: wiping up spaghetti
sauce, blood-splattered
across the dining room wall.
Pieces of broken plate. This.
Every time I
wash my son’s shirt.

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