The Disordered
poetry by Anhvu Buchanan

"Posttraumatic Stress"

It’s the broken bulb in the back of the eye. The dirt beneath the footsteps, anthills, landmines ready to explode. It’s lip service at the back door. It’s the soldier in the supermarket, restocking ripe rifles and tossing around the grape grenades. The gust of the garden hose dripping at the thighs. The camera in the clouds recording every move. The splatter of fingers in the frying pan. It’s the wet anvils crashing down from the sky. The army of baby strollers approaching slowly like tanks. It’s the listening at the bottom of the stairs. The runny nose right after dinner. It’s the way the tires burn at dawn. It’s the fear in the ear, just before.