Fun With Therapy – Heather Bell

The problem with poets is we like
to sound more interesting than we
are.  The poet goes to therapy and says
she has been skinning herself

alive. How interesting!  How probable and
dark!  The poet writes long letters

to the therapist in which she says

her skills are in high demand, such as

tilting men, finger to head, toppling
them over.  Poets like to take it too
far,

disease themselves. No one is ever truly

that lonely, the therapist tells
her.  The poet

writes a list of possibilities:  tomb
herself into

the house like a pharoah, disappear.  The
moon

is a supermarket, she says.  The cat
refuses to come
home.  How beautiful and weird!  How
humble of

her to acknowledge she has gone off the
deep end,

so early in the game.  Here she sees a
sky of clouds in the blot.  There she
sees knuckles and a wad of flesh.  The
therapist evaluates

the situation like it is a police report:
woman’s face is a tight shiny surface of
worry.  Woman’s hands keep moving over
the disappointment.  Woman

says she hasn’t told the truth for years
and we have to believe her.
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I found my Heather Bell book.    I love this woman.

How humble of 

her to acknowledge she has gone off the
deep end,

so early in the game.  

I’m on some taking what I think I deserve, and you’re overdue

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I’m kind of.  very happy.  Patron saint of “I don’t normally do this”

although…  that isn’t really true anymore is it?
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metaphors for you!

“Memory is a crazy woman that hoards colored rags and throws away food.”
-Austin O’Malley

“The streets were a furnace, the sun an executioner.”
-Cynthia Ozick
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poetry for you!

Habits – Nikki Giovanni (the first 2/3rds)

i haven’t written a poem in so long
i may have forgotten how
unless writing a poem
is like riding a bike
or swimming upstream
or loving you
it may be a habit that once acquired
is never lost

but you say i’m foolish
of course you love me
but being loved of course
is not the same as being loved because
or being loved despite
or being loved
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A Love Poem During Marriage – Heather Bell

And then she took a series of photographs of her face
and hung each one upside down in the bathroom.   Because that
is where it started.   And she has not showered for days,
months.   So as she steps into the wetness,  her hair becomes soft
like a small possum and the tile around her is forest and

she is walking.   And she comes to a well, moon looking down
sadly like a human.  As if to say she would not have been able
to love a disabled baby.  So she touches the edge of the well

and inside she sees her hands wrapped up in butcher paper.
Because she could not drive to the hospital fast enough,
the moon looks down and removes that which she no longer needs.

She feels ready to leave the house so perhaps if you peeked in
you would see a normal woman not crying in the shower.
You would see her ready her hands to touch other hands.
You would see her soap her body at the neck, and see

no wound there.   But her husband is standing silent while
she is not crying at a deep well and he holds the towel as if

it were a rope and bucket to drag her out.
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Heather Bell is my favorite favorite favorite and I bought her book once but now I can’t find it
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song for you!