print previewback IBE LIEBENBERG
PTSD
it is 2 a.m. ugly,
beautiful is sleeping.
and body parts are now religion.
a holy cult
where the angels won’t shut up
about our weeping.
all over the road,
your chalk outline,
limb-scattered vessel,
a temporary home.
i bring it to the station
resurrect you
night into night.
trace the white scribbled shape
into a body.
in my room
the ghosts unfold me,
caress my uniform
before putting it on.
and when the angels do not see us,
wings undressed; they leave.
we are the frowns of your absence,
ghosts holding up our clothes. 
Ceremony
CPR @ 2pm
don’t bring your 6-year-old to a wild horse auction, just bring a horse home
PTSD