Today while doing some research on Remedios Varo, I came across this painting of hers that I’d never seen before. “Woman Leaving the Psychoanalyst” is bitterly funny to me when I think about my experiences with male psychotherapists. I can’t stop thinking about exiting a session and peeling off the analysis part as I return to the world. I just jotted down a quick, rough poem about it:
By age 20 I thought I’d emptied myself
completely and fully
purged of cobwebs that gather in the places where bones meet
spots damp with cumulus clouds laid out to dry in the sun
ribs cracked open
flesh peeled back, pinned
exposed, splayed, light.
No more to show, I am flat now
every acre explored
every inch claimed,
I have recorded the depths of all my rivers
heights of my mountains
classified what is bountiful,
what is endangered,
what is irretrievably lost.
We have quantified my resources
allocated to places that are underdeveloped
and here you are
the man who will draw me my maps
while himself remaining unexplored territory.
What you don’t know
is that I have learned since then
how to once more let myself grow wild
set fires screaming through the suburbs you so carefully pieced out
stop hacking at blackberry brambles, sweet and thick and bloody
flood the rivers until they send out water to all the places that have been parched
by diagnostics, by pathology, by the defining of my madness.
I am summoning earthquakes from my core
to topple the metropolis that was never mine,
I am letting you fall
like overripe fruit.