Kate Carey

“How did IRA training go?” Beth will say.
saccharine with a smile.
And I will say “ok.”
Because what does she expect-
what does she want-
what can I even tell her-
about the panic in my bones manifesting
on the side of the highway,
the dull ache numbing in my skeleton
the desire to lay on the carpet
in that dirty hotel conference room
or “summit 6” as they called it.

I don’t know how much of this is my head injury
and how much is just the past regurgitating itself up,
silt and pebbles bogged down into
a plastic coke bottle, the layers
of my core-
gravel crust,
molten lava core,
the magma in my belly.

I’ve got an Associates degree in Liberal Arts
& a Master’s in Dissociation.
Guess which one has proved more useful?

Another person leaves this office
& suddenly I’m now responsible for their tasks.
After one afternoon where I barely paid attention
I am now the credit union wide expert on IRAs.
Doesn’t seem very good legally to me.
What else can I do but everything they throw onto me
on a begged for $13 an hour?