Kate Evans
I’d been wanting to write a poem about my decision to leave therapy, and finally the poem came to me at a snowy winter cabin in the mountains. In addition to writing syllabi, quizzes and status updates, I’ve been working on a book about happiness and personal transformation.
Web site: beingandwriting.blogspot.com
Publications:
The Bouquet
You know things are rough
when your therapist worries
about you. You’ve told her too much:
the drinking, the blasting music while
driving, the sex. You’re impulsive
she says. You might, like a child
unsupervised, do something unsafe.
She’s pretty, kind of a hippie,
probably a lesbian. You chafe
against her admonition. She’s
like a lesbian version of your
mother. And you? Oh please,
Universe, how to know? Now
that your longtime wife dumped you
and you’re dating men, how
to know? When she leans forward
her round turquoise pendant
on a leather string sways toward
you like a tiny blue earth.
Teach me what’s next, you say,
now that I can take a breath
without every inch of my brain
crowded with my wife’s lips kissing
her new lover. It begins to rain.
Your therapist talks. The parking lot
glistens, windshields baptized. Last night
you were happy. You drank a lot
of wine and laughed hard with a friend
about betrayal. Driving here today, you didn’t
want a very loud song on the radio to end.
It’s time to thank your mothers.
Each one. To gather your excesses
like an elaborate bouquet. Others
cannot tell you now. We need parents
for a short while. Time to shake
her hand. Her little world twirls.
Outside, raindrops sparkle on your sweater.
Your life is new, is yours, again. The key
slipping into the ignition never felt better.
