when the shackles come off

my therapist says it’s all about sex
i say no: what about god, and honeybees,
and sentences complex?

my therapist says which parent made you sad
i say no: this is not about mom or dad
it’s about hummingbirds and tap lessons
and being pushed off the dock
and that time i stole nickels from oh my god it IS
all about m
y parents

my therapist says you need to lighten up
i say light ain’t the problem; i’m running out
of guff about my happy childhood

my therapist says why do you
think you’re so cynical
i say cynical, schminical;
my father cheated my mother drank
my brother pimped my sister shrank
i’m the most well-adjusted leaf on the family tree
and i’m the one in therapy!
because i can’t go out at night
because i can’t put up a fight
i never pretended to be sweetness and light
but what a crock, this womonly plight

my therapist says let’s explore what you mean
i say this distressed couch could use a steam-clean; how many heads
have you shrunk here before me?
were they better at disclosure and paying your fee?
did they do their home selfwork re bad touch and strangers
were they unhinged, but sane now?
free from emotional pain now?

my therapist says that’s our time for today. next week
could we start sooner? you’re regressing
i say next week could we start with pills and rum? you’re depressing

my therapist says perhaps you should find
another couch; you’re growing more hostile
i say screw the couch let’s jump straight to the bed
it’s like you & sigmund have already said:
everything always comes back to sex
and don’t think i haven’t noticed the way you look at me

my therapist says you’re projecting
i say i’m really just self-protecting
my sanity, my tiny place in this world
it’s hard, you know, when you throw like a girl

my therapist says that is your time, now goodbye
i say thank you for nothing
now watch this loon fly

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

BELOW THE LINE: i just found this on my computer in a bucket marked ‘drafts.’ apparently i created the file
back in november, but i have ABSOLUTELY NO RECOLLECTION of writing it, or what the initial prompt/context was, or which dog-eared notebook it was birthed into. does this mean the inevitable spiral into madness has begun?
or was the writing preceded by three very large glasses of cab sav? oy!
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4 responses to “when the shackles come off

  1. “oh my god it IS
    all about my parents!”

    and

    “this distressed couch could use a steam-clean; how many heads
    have you shrunk here before me?”

    love this poem, such a different rhythm and style… i can tell you had fun with this!

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