Therapy

When did the recording of facts,
the laying down of my life
in your lap,
become my best weapon?

The way great kings want their reigns
to last forever in stone,
that is how I want my transcript to look:
a fat rock alone in a field,
placed upright against a gray sky,
holding it up.

If I walked into your office
and you were not there,
I would tell it to the crooked medieval tapestry
above your desk,
the sad-necked lamp over your chair,
the ribbed vermillion pillow,
the pastel drawing of a plant.

And if they were not there,
I would tell it to the shower head,
the mashed leaves under the park bench,
the spices lining the stovetop.

When we speak our facts aloud,
we place our stones,
yes, but—
when we speak our facts aloud,
then we hear them.

— 2012