I HAVE STARTED TO SEE A THERAPIST

in the way that all poets do. when they expect
language to run into a glass wall and bleed out
from the shards a poem. this is the fourth poem
i am writing about you. none of the others have
blossomed into an orchard. the roots are choked
underfoot with rot. the soil is stillborn, drained
of meaning. the therapist, fresh out of grad school,
asks me to open up. to locate the tender spot and to 

press down. so i re-enact. perhaps you appreciate
how hard this is for me. for it is delicate work
to unweed this garden, to pull up the green shoots
and to muddy them with language. i am sorry
i never said no. i am sorry you could not read
my silence. this is only my third session, and
already the geraniums on dr. ledermann’s desk
have begun to flower. the sun is yellowing.

Anonymous