My Elusive Therapist
Molly Conway
In his office, his lips curved slightly
upwards, his clear eyes peering keenly
into mine, the broker bought his time.
The glowing red digital numbers
of the clock, tall where we both can see
it, he’s a mirage, a delusion
of appearance, faded black and white
photograph. Wipe the steamed up image
from the bathroom mirror. My eyes see
illusions, the projector clicks on,
a light tunnel filled with floating dust,
It hums. Who’s that sitting in his chair?
A newborn fawn, fresh from the womb, stands
unsteadily on his stilt-like legs,
watching his mom swiftly run away
as a lion stalks. The fawn freezes,
sharp fangs tear the fawn’s new tender hide.
The lion feeds, the mother returns.
He mounts her heavily, she spreads her
legs wide. A child, hair flying in the
wind, runs after a moving train, her
parents stand on the top steps urging
her on, she reaches it, they push her
back, laughing and holding each other.
There’s that feeling again, seering at
my abdomen. Warm tears swell up in
my eyes and trickle down the contours
of my crinkled face. I falter, then
speak, staring at the new Persian rug
covering the wooden floor. My worst
fear has been realized. I’m standing
at the edge of the earth alone. Will
I jump off or fly? An angle stands guard
to my left. Times up. He rises and
opens the door. “See you Monday” he
says. I nod, leaving, hanging my head.
