Poetry About Dissociation

My hands move as though they belong to a film. Voices reach me through a wall of water. The clock advances without taking me along. I name five blue things, then feel the chair. Breath returns one small room at a time. The present waits without demanding speed.

Look again from the quieter edge. Voices reach me through a wall of water. A smaller detail changes the whole scene. I name five blue things, then feel the chair. Attention loosens the first easy answer. The present waits without demanding speed.

My hands move as though they belong to a film. Hours pass, but the image does not leave. The clock advances without taking me along. It returns us to detachment, memory gaps, trauma, distance from the body, grounding, and the slow return to the present. Breath returns one small room at a time. The day continues with a more attentive heart.