WHAT'S NOT SAID.

A GIRL AND HER PSYCHIATRIST.

The psychiatrist sits opposite
In his comfortable chair with

His comfortable life, well paid
Job and beautiful wife. She how

Ever sits staring at the wall behind
His head wishing him dead. Not

Just him, though, the whole darn
Lot of them who surround her in

The ward: the nurses, patients,
Visitors, cleaners, the handyman

Who looks about as sour faced
As she feels. The psychiatrist folds

His plump hands over his stout
Stomach like some new age Buddha;

His dark foreign eyes study her deeply.
How are we today? He asks. She turns

Her gaze on him; the wall is getting
Boring anyway what with the photos

Being of him and his bourgeoisie life
And family. Are we feeling depressed

Still? He ventures, his words like thick
Treacle. There is a small spot on his large

Nose just above the bridge; dark hairs
Protrude from his nostrils like spiders.

One needs to open up, Miss Tresler,
Open up the door and let others know

How you feel. His lips are large and
Damp, she imagines him giving the kiss

Of life and begins to feel nauseous; begins
To feel sorry for his wife. He sits back

In his chair, his eyes looking away,
Perching on a photograph on his desk,

The one of two children smiling back,
Well-groomed, well-behaved, sitting

Pretty, goofy grins. Her father made
Her smile like that in photographs to

Hide the things he did and said, causing
No great joy for her or bundle of laughs.