When the Therapist Asks Me How I’m Feeling, I Say

here the sky’s an allotment
doled out sparingly, grass

a small square surrounded
by swaths of concrete,

my heart a black cat stretched
out on the cinderblock wall,

eyes glassy as blood seeps
out the side of her mouth,

hit by some car, yet she
struggled home again,

while fern fronds
supplicate for latticed light,

their furry fiddleheads
forming perfect curlicues,

asking questions I can’t
even begin to answer.