On Visiting My Psychologist
“I’m simply an accident. Why take it all so seriously?”
— Emil Cioran
The man inside my head preferred me dead.
I thought I would never write poetry again.
My dishes piled up like regrets in the sink.
I had nowhere to turn for love or help—
all my friends were workaholics or dead.
Instead of calling them, I smoked and wrote
an obituary for myself. What could I say?
The frost blinding my windows never went away—
day after day there was nothing but snow. I tended
to leave my stuffy home, to walk alone while I kidded
myself about such things. Hope felt like a ghost
my years would never know. I’m sorry
how I never called you back, those days you called
and called. I felt fine. My hands, dry and cracked,
flipped pages for hours. The birds packed
the dark green trees. And somehow,
somehow the sun was brighter, almost enthralled.
Jason Gordy Walker (he/him/his) has published poems in Broad River Review, Cellpoems, Confrontation, Hawai’i Pacific Review, Measure, One Art, Poetry South, Think, and other journals; his book reviews and interviews have appeared in Birmingham Poetry Review, Newpages, Subtropics, and the Dos Madres Press Blog. A recipient of scholarships from The New York State Summer Writers Institute, Poetry by the Sea: A Global Conference, and The West Chester University Poetry Conference, Walker is an MFA student at the University of Florida.
2 thoughts on “On Visiting My Psychologist by Jason Gordy Walker”
Oh, Jason, this is absolutely exquisite.
How kind! Thank you so much, Sara!