Depression Aubade, or My Therapist Has a Breakthrough / Feedback
Depression Aubade, or My Therapist Has a Breakthrough
Easton, PA, 2015, winter
She talks about wet pigeons, or
melted snow. I take notes
on my inner lip, like a birdcage.
She says my depression
is glass. She says it’s hard to imagine
a future with a foggy heart
like an old dog or a piano. Outside,
light turns into light.
I take the train home,
an apology. I often
write about you now. I say
I love and let it stretch me
like a key. Now, I write about
what I see instead. I love
the shapes, how nothing
lasts long enough to have
a shadow. I love
the world pulsing with movement
and silence too big
to hold, its shallow shallow sky.
I love how nothing
looks like itself. If you’re listening,
imagine the flawless snow
of your body becoming
space. Imagine the music
of nothing. It doesn’t feel
like breathing. It doesn’t feel like being
invisible. It feels like the shy
water of dawn. It feels
like being, like being, and
being, and being.
I love that the author uses burps to signify whimsy and a broken-down car. I love that the author sighs like television static. I love that the author is a groundhog, a spy, a pointer finger. I love that the author repairs the radio like drawing a constellation. I love that the author gives everybody something to do with their pockets like the night with its stars. I love the author’s use of eggshells. I love that we see the author but we don’t see the author like a dog’s buried bone. I love that the author doesn’t see us. Everyday the author takes the bus like a distant hum, I love that. I love that somebody leaves the author a voicemail and doesn’t talk about pain as a thin golden feather. I love that the author calls back.