She’s tried Jungian, Freudian, Transactional
Analyses, even Rolfing, the instructor’s knuckles
kneading her skin, fingers pushing up
her nose, fists down
her throat, his dog barking
next to him. She’ll tell you the issues
have lodged themselves in her connective tissue
or confide in you about the therapist
who lies in his Naugahyde recliner,
the rips in it camouflaged with masking
tape to keep the stuffing from popping,
and the day he reached deep inside
himself, pulled out his own
caked-on secret, showed it
to her, and how she fled-
because she knew for him there was no cure-
to a braless humanist who played Hindu
music and had her pound
a battered paisley pillow and yell
about her mother and father.
Acquainted with every pamphleteer, she’s anchored
herself to a small green chair and watches
neighbors pack their cars for summer travel,
longs to go anywhere, always prepares a bag
twice-once for luck, once to be ready-
and when she doesn’t leave, she runs out
to buy the latest self-help book and slowly returns
each folded item to its own familiar shelf.
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