My Therapist Wants to Know about My Relationship to Work

I hustle upstream. I grasp. I grind. I control & panic. Poke balloons in my chest, always popping there, always my thoughts thump, thump. I snooze — wake & go boom. All day, like this I short my breath. I scroll & scroll. I see what you wrote — I like. I heart. My thumb, so tired. My head bent down, but not in prayer, heavy from the looking. I see your face, your phone-lit faces. I tap your food, two times for more hearts. I retweet. I email: y es&yes&yes. Then I cry & need to say:no-no-no. Why does it take so long to reply? I FOMO & shout. I read. I never enough. New book. New post. New ping. A new tab, then another. Papers on the floor, scattered & stacked. So many journals, unbroken white spines, waiting. Did you hear that new new? I start to text back. Ellipsis, then I forget. I balk. I lazy the bed. I wallow when I write. I truth when I lie. I throw a book when a poem undoes me. I underline Clifton:today we are possible. I start from image. I begin with Phillis Wheatley. I begin with Phillis Wheatley. I begin with Phillis Wheatley reaching for coal. I start with a napkin, receipt, or my hand. I muscle memory. I stutter the page. I fail. Hit delete — scratch out one more line. I sonnet, then break form. I make tea, use two bags. Rooibos again. I bathe now. Epsom salt. No books or phone. Just water & the sound of water filling, glory — be my buoyant body, bowl of me. Yes, lavender, more bubbles & bath bomb, of course some candles too. All alone with Coltrane. My favorite, “Naima,” for his wife, now for me, inside my own womb. Again, I child back. I float. I sing. I simple & humble. Eyes close. I low my voice, was it a psalm? Don’t know. But I stopped.