Though sinners’ souls are shriven clear,
the ravished aren’t restored.
The Good News turns to Bad News near
the raped, abused, or whored.
Most kids like me kept mum, for fear
that ill repute would smite us.
But unhealed traumas reappear.
The past comes back to bite us.
Two decades on, I told the dear,
kind man that I adored.
The bits he couldn’t bear to hear
he said could be ignored.
We waited—faithful, chaste, sincere—
for marriage to unite us.
But unhealed traumas reappear.
The past comes back to bite us.
Once wed, we scrimmaged, set to cheer
the moment that we scored,
but childhood trauma’s souvenir
had blocked me like a board.
Halfway through our fourth wed year,
my body ceased to fight us.
But unhealed traumas reappear.
The past comes back to bite us.
Like phosphorus, some harms adhere.
We tidy their detritus,
but unhealed traumas reappear.
The past comes back to bite us.
What We’ve Been Reading—January
R. R. Reno A friend was shocked that I had not read Saul Bellow. He sought to…
Architecture for Real People
In this episode, Anselm Audley joins Rusty Reno on The Editor’s Desk to talk about his essay “Cities…
Give the National Endowment for the Arts Back to the Public
For decades, Americans have become increasingly alienated from the American arts establishment. The main source for their…