How Much Pain We Bear

Trauma sits
     in the center of a plate
     on a rod
     attached to a heart
A drop of oil, it’s a stain,
a small event
     on this clean plate,
and, with care, may be cleaned or removed, in one small swipe
     Or the heart, like a motor, can race
spinning the rod
and thus the plate,
and flinging the trauma in a whirl to the wall
     splattering anything within reach,
     touching it all
via centrifugal force, from the racing heart
away from the pain,
away from the original stain it all spins
     in a panic to be free
     of the thing we can’t stand to acknowledge at all:
memory of pain
sawtoothed raw

How much pain we bear
is how much pain we cause

     when how much care we’re given
     is with how much grace is left
after the cost
of whatever it was
     Whatever it was that makes us flinch
still to this day
How much grace is left is inherited
from the plate that came before
     on its own rod
and its own heart with care at the core, whatever care was given
     to any drop that lands on any part
Some small event
on a once clean plate
     on a rod
     attached to a heart