My anger may rest for a while outside on the porch.

When the call came through

her body was gone;

the slightest tremble stilled 

in the presence of childhood rituals 

like bedtime stories. 

The sirens behind the voice 

she remembered

from turning eight years old, 

ears tuned into 

the sounds of distress 

like a lullaby. 

When she hears the same call now,

she becomes eight years old

and loses her body temporarily. 

Without the playful rhythm 

of interoception 

she is dull; she collects dust. 

He tells her much later

about the trauma that he witnessed. 

He explains how the calls find her. 

He knows the sirens started

a long time ago.