Rachel B. Glaser

I wonder who my therapist lives with if not just her husband

has she a wife too?
or do her sisters stay in the room over the garage
has she taken in some lonely youths who reject their own given parents
or kids from the mountains, trained by the sky and unschooled?
has she wild sex with many partners in the special room Loyisa painted
on the loveseat under Andrew’s elk head?
is it the kind of colony where the same thought travels around the table?
is it a camp, like mine in summer, where classical music pours into the
outdoors and people lay about in the grass?
have I thought my life so dissented from the norm since I sometimes don’t
bother with a bra or leave my house or receive a salary
when actually it is she who lives a mystery and is maybe making more jokes?
does she shake with laughter around the fire
swaying next to a traveler who stays for just one night?
when arriving home, (I see a wooden sign swinging over a long dirt path)
does she immediately shed her sensible clothes and don a robe with her name?
I wonder
in these days between sessions
recalling again how when I asked, carefully, if it were just she and her
husband living like one, she stared at me, one eye off nowhere, and then said “no,”
and it thrilled me
and thrills me still
though each remembrance a little less
as I accept it as fact
but at a minute like this one
is she picking up her skirts?
is she choosing between Pedro and Adrianna
or tying a headdress on her son?
has she found the right way to live?
free from her television?
has God shown her how to stay beautiful
no matter what ugliness boils the world
will she press the magic into my palm?
in the form of an appointment card
will she draft my lifestyle
and make it less frivolous
make it roll harmoniously
avoiding the dullness and the bother
the pettiness we all room with?
will she be dancing at my wedding
or pushing me into her car
and driving
to the house she built with Omar
the place with no address
but a jingle they all sing
or a nickname
The Houseboat
or Cloud 8?