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Poetry
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| At the Therapists. | |
| By ZainaZahir | ||||||||||||||
| 29 November 2007 | ||||||||||||||
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My last visit to the therapist gave me things to think about. The therapist wears a white dress, As she sits in her white room, She writes my details on white paper To diagnose, a cure presume. I must be examined, She wants to look inside. I remove my gloves, my veil, And all the things that hide Beneath my niquab spill out A pus filled, rancid tide. I tell her of my marriage How I have asked for more And better, but he won't talk Last week he was with a whore And how I love another. She lays rose quartz on my abdomen Yarrow on my heart, Soft colours play, she tells me to Imagine light in every body part. Crab apple and oak in a bottle Take small sips throughout the day She says But branches always grow until The root is cut away
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