In
dreams, it seems I am forever processing my shit.
It
is dangerous for I clearly lack the fundamental skill
at
getting it out and on the table, so to speak.
The
toilets are noxious and clogged
by
the generations preceding Or the bowl
water
is
level with the seat. I can’t bear
flooding.
The
toilet is a hole in the ground and my baby blanket
is
stuffed in, suppressing my desire to shit.
Toilets
are in cramped school lockers
and
no matter how I try, I can’t fit in.
Once,
I was asked to perform shitting
in
a high-school talent show, but I refused.
Artistically-speaking,
I have been constipated for years.
Sometimes
the toilet is in a church pew,
or
is in a bar, and the bartender insists
I
have a few drinks first. Usually, I am
alone.
At
other times, there is a long, line ahead of me
of
shitters, more secure and successful at detachment.
On
occasion my relatives pull up a chair and watch.
It
feels less like encouragement and more like ridicule.
From
over the stall wall, Freud’s mistress throws
a
roll of tissue. Coated in toxic waste, the sludge
is
as catastrophic as intrusive thoughts.
I
wipe anyway, relieved to have at least for once
flushed
some shit. Sometimes I just sit on the toilet and read
Alice
Miller knowing it has all been for my own
good.
My
husband doesn’t want me to analyze my shit.
I
took Zoloft to help me shit; my husband flushed it.
I
need to leave him and can’t, because anywhere I go
there
will be another sad, malignant toilet.
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