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.
______________________________________________________
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.  

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