I've never written a poem specifically about PTSD but almost all of my poems are about specific instances that lead to my PTSD. Here is one that was published in a literary journal called 42 Opus.



Aeronautics

open your window and let in the atmosphere,
oh let it breakthrough ~ Modest Mouse


Here, tourists sift sand between toes, not knowing
salt makes straw of hair. I explore the ocean for one

of Christa McAuliffe's strands. Her machine cut through air
with the confidence of steel. When it separated,

my second grade teacher dismissed us for the day.
I didn’t know precision could unhinge itself. My grandmother cried

that afternoon, not because cancer blew up in her mouth,
but because I had witnessed how things fall apart.


Previously published in 42 Opus, June 2006