At the Art Therapist’s

“Draw black, then.” But to any black
I draw there is an edge, my arm
slides easily under it: it is fake.
The paper tears along the chalk line.
And the lines are false, they translate
what’s not yet mapped, into sacred territories,

I have seen no rivers. My left hand 
reaches for my skill, but my right
withdraws, fastidious, all five fingers
tense and shaking. I am no good at this.
I’m stumped, amputated, my heart
closes its ventricles over and over,
like a mouth closing over the same word.

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