Couch

'The rapist? slaughter?'
Therapist's laughter:
'Oh me, you really are a card
To try so very hard,'
And I grin like a beggar
From the burnished leather couch,
Arching my back
So my slack blouse gapes.
'More?' he angles,
And like an Eskimo
Hunched over a hole in the ice
I fish up bogus memories -
Wet, cold, wriggling.

I unspool tangled yarns about leopard bruises
Yellow and black
That map my narrow back
And cook up lovingly braised tales
Of how they appeared there.
A lover features strongly;
Cruel, aridly distant,
He hurls flattery like horseshoes,
Blessing an eye, a breast,
The scarlet conch of an ear.
Sometimes - most often in bed -
He becomes my father,
With his callused
Blacksmith's hands and tender,
Measured words.

I watch for approval
As I disgorge,
Adding details I think will please
My quiet confidante and the whispering
Beak of his pencil.
'The chapel was in a Dutch valley?
I remember wilted garlands of white
Lilies and the aftertaste
Of a bloodied nose. I was giddy?
A smash of organ chords? him
Yanking me down the
Aisle? a view?
I? love you.'