My therapist said I
was being enmesh-y I knew
the “y” was so as not to hurt my feelings.
Anyway, she’s not a grandmother yet either, so what does she know?
Instead, I Google
your situation to find out
if you’re sick in the mornings, to learn
what you are afraid of, what you are hoping for.
Of course, the reply
is “no results. Try using different words.”
Okay, different words: I never thought it would be like this,
You full of baby, in silent retreat, me in angry longing. How can I welcome
this child when
I don’t recognize you
now, nor your new lover.
In my mind I stroke your fiery curls,
mark your temper
hot as your grandfather’s–
you and he, my bright yellow haired shouters.
You’re in therapy too. You say you’re learning to like your angry inner kid.
I want to shudder,
or laugh. Really? Soon enough
you’ll meet your own flesh-wrapped angry child,
and so it goes:
yellow hair,
yellow suns blooming
behind my squeezed shut eyes,
Russian dolls each with a secret smile,
painted mouths hold the lies we tell our parents,
our children, our selves.
