Under Analysis

Under Analysis

I still dream of solving math problems
on the blackboard, the professor shaking

his head in disgust before passing over
my computations with the eraser. The sound

vaguely recalls the swish of Mother's
evening robe in the hall before she slams

the bedroom door. Tomatoes in olive oil
and oregano make me thirsty at night.

My chapped lips burn afterwards. Sometimes
I forget and bite them upon waking.

My analyst claims I have to stop this
loser act. She can be feral on her bad days.

I sit on the couch, watch her legs cross
and uncross, enjoy the view from her office.

After the session, I am struck by how hands
accepting cash look the same everywhere.