Rachael Trotter
I’m Learning to Let Myself Scream Again
My mom says I sounded like a wet cat
when they pulled me out in a c-section.
I spent entire years shrieking
at my sisters about favorite Barbie shoes
gone missing or whose turn it was
for the computer. Then mom shouting
at us when she came home
from work at 1am, dishes still piled
in the sink, ketchup puddled in place on plates.
But when the Army tucked me into its tight
corners, I didn’t yell the first time I was sucked
out of a C-130, the flimsy green parachute
unravelling above me—my lips taught only
to count to six, long enough to know whether
to pull the reserve strapped to my chest.
They taught me not to make a sound
when I watched my patient die or wiped
blood and brain from my scrubs. The only noise
I made, calling the fifth suicidal soldier of the day
from the ER waiting room, was their name.
I’m practicing how to be heard again,
after a shitty shift, my car windows shut tight,
my voice blooming carefully behind glass.
I squeal with joy when I’m a little high,
my Marvin Gaye record turned as loud as it’ll go.
I let my limbs be wild. Last month, I howled
in a tunnel at the San Francisco Zoo, holding
my 7-year-old niece’s small hand. Our voices
hit the curved walls painted
like zebras and lions running through grass,
then bounced back to our open throats.
“A dear friend of mine says poetry is about breaking silences. This poem was written as both a way to break a literal silence I learned and adapted to while in the military as well as to break the silence around what are considered expected ‘occupational hazards’ to a solider and first responder.” —Rachael Trotter
Rachael Trotter is a veteran of the Army Nurse Corps, now working in a local Emergency Room in Reno, Nevada. Her work is derived from her experiences as a veteran and first responder. She holds a Bachelor of Science degree in Nursing from the University of Nevada, Reno and aims to further her studies in poetry to one day hold a degree in the fine arts as well.