In
dreams, I am forever processing my shit.
I
clearly lack the skill at getting it out
and
on the table, so to speak.
Toilets
are noxious and clogged
by
generations before me.
Or
the bowl water rises
level
with the seat.
I
can’t bear flooding.
Sometimes
it’s a hole in the ground—
my
baby blanket stuffed inside
plugging
it.
Sometimes
the toilet is in a school locker.
No
matter how I try, I can’t fit in.
Once,
I was asked to perform shitting
in
a high-school talent show.
I
refused.
Artistically-speaking,
I
have been constipated for years.
Sometimes
the toilet is in a church pew,
or
is in a bar—
the
bartender insists
I
have a few drinks first.
Usually,
I am alone.
At
other times there’s a line-
shitters
ahead of me
secure
and successful at detachment.
My
relatives pull up chairs
and
watch.
It
feels less like encouragement
and
more like ridicule.
From
over the stall wall,
Freud’s
mistress throws a tissue roll.
a
roll of tissue.
Coated
in toxic waste, the sludge
is
as catastrophic as intrusive thoughts.
Sometimes
I just sit there
and
read.
My
husband doesn’t want me
to
analyze my shit.
I
took Zoloft to help—
my husband flushed it.
I
need to leave him
and
can’t, because wherever I go
there
will be another sad, malignant toilet.
