The Therapist
Hannah Roche
(For Lynn)
Besides a plain gold wedding band
and a date on a card, left-handedly
penned – a plan to see each other
again – between the lines, her life,
her facts are far from mine. I am
not hers. Besides each hour, her words
emerge behind my teeth:
I wonder if you could tell me
how it feels, and where it hurts?
She closes her eyes. We never cry.
I am losing my mother and, once,
she bravely said that her dad is dead
and life broke me, then. We are tired.
Here is where it hurts. I look away
and know that I may never find sleep
again. My hands. She laughs, and forms
a fist. Another session, I show her
my new engagement ring.
I am losing her. We want to think
that life goes on, and we will live,
alone, apart, adrift. Today,
my mind is occupied with this:
If my boat capsized and I nearly drowned
- she talks always in metaphor –
and amidst the storm I was washed ashore,
would it hurt too much if I reached out
a nervous hand and, hurt, touched yours?
I never try. We never touch.
Saying goodbye, strange and shy again,
I know that where it hurts has traced
itself into this hour, within white walls –
in the time before we are two women,
two roles, preoccupied – when we are tired
and we will not touch. Faced with the
hours between, not hers, I hold my words.
My hands grow cold. This is where it hurts.
Listen to Hannah read the poem here:
(For Lynn)
Besides a plain gold wedding band
and a date on a card, left-handedly
penned – a plan to see each other
again – between the lines, her life,
her facts are far from mine. I am
not hers. Besides each hour, her words
emerge behind my teeth:
I wonder if you could tell me
how it feels, and where it hurts?
She closes her eyes. We never cry.
I am losing my mother and, once,
she bravely said that her dad is dead
and life broke me, then. We are tired.
Here is where it hurts. I look away
and know that I may never find sleep
again. My hands. She laughs, and forms
a fist. Another session, I show her
my new engagement ring.
I am losing her. We want to think
that life goes on, and we will live,
alone, apart, adrift. Today,
my mind is occupied with this:
If my boat capsized and I nearly drowned
- she talks always in metaphor –
and amidst the storm I was washed ashore,
would it hurt too much if I reached out
a nervous hand and, hurt, touched yours?
I never try. We never touch.
Saying goodbye, strange and shy again,
I know that where it hurts has traced
itself into this hour, within white walls –
in the time before we are two women,
two roles, preoccupied – when we are tired
and we will not touch. Faced with the
hours between, not hers, I hold my words.
My hands grow cold. This is where it hurts.
Listen to Hannah read the poem here:
About the author
Hannah Roche is a PhD student at the University of Leeds, UK. Hannah’s research, funded by the AHRC, is an exploration into the various functions of distance, displacement, and dislocation in Modernist lesbian writing.
Having lived and studied in Glasgow, Bordeaux, and Brighton, Hannah is now settled in West Yorkshire, England with her family and fiancée Sarah. Her favorite poem, by far, is Gertrude Stein’s "Lifting Belly."
http://www.leeds.ac.uk/arts/people/20040/school_of_english/person/1910/hannah_roche.
Having lived and studied in Glasgow, Bordeaux, and Brighton, Hannah is now settled in West Yorkshire, England with her family and fiancée Sarah. Her favorite poem, by far, is Gertrude Stein’s "Lifting Belly."
http://www.leeds.ac.uk/arts/people/20040/school_of_english/person/1910/hannah_roche.