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.

---

Feedback

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.