My Counseling Appointment

I climb the twisting stairs and approach the door,
“Know Thyself” invisibly inscribed on its mantle.
Once inside, I wait with several other supplicants
Until called to offer up a sacrifice.
The novice takes my offering with one swipe of the magnetic strip—
Twelve dollars mysteriously winging its way into her coffers.

In the waiting room, I avoid eye contact, because
A look can be a confession, and I prefer to hide my shame
in a Better Homes and Gardens magazine.
I hear her heels before I hear my name
Which I answer by rising and smiling and following
Further back into a dimly lit room with an oversized couch
And a fake palm trapped in an ugly alabaster pot.

I tap my fingers and stare at the blue ink stain on my jeans.
She asks about my week and slips into her speech
The sweet ipecac of caring.
It doesn’t take long, and soon I’m staring at my own entrails
Strewn across an otherwise spotless carpet.
She leans over and probes my lung.
The second-hand smoke of familial dysfunctionality
Seems to be causing my alveoli to fail,
But they’re healthier than my pancreas,
Which might explain my inability to accept criticism.
Covered in mucus is a blackened photo,
A memory that got caught in the conflagration of ‘98
When all my self-esteem went up in flames.
With a raised eyebrow she lifts a trembling red
Shoelace, which I can’t identify, so I assign it to my id.

At last I think we’re done, but she stops
And holds out her hand in expectation.
Frantically, I paw through my remaining organs;
My fingers get caught in a pocket of black tar
Hiding behind my left kidney.
Upon examination, we declare it to be my fear of
Commitment and I throw it in the trash.

Five-forty-five: it’s time to leave.
She scribbles her prescription on her tripled-leaves
And keeps the pink copy.
I painstakingly rearrange my rib cage,
Careful to pick off stray lint and a long blond hair.
I pick up my purse, thank her for her time,
And head towards the car, even more confused
Than when I came to Delphi.