ON MY STOOL, IN MY DOME


She said, picture yourself in a safe place
And instantly I saw myself on a wooden stool
Painted forest green – a stool with rungs
I am hunched over with my head pulled
Down between my shoulders and look as if
I am afraid someone might hit me but when
She asks me if I feel safe and I say not quite


She asks me what I need to do to make
The space safe and I know right away and fashion
A strong, clear dome that fits right over the whole
Affair – me, the stool – leaving enough room
to breathe
But close enough to make me feel, well ... safe


She asks me to describe my safe place
And more particularly, me in it -
I, too sick to decline, even though
I feel embarrassed I think, begin to give
Her exacting details – especially as she leads me
When I falter with prompts, such as
What are you doing with your hands?
(Keeping them cupped up near my face
As if to hide it at a moment’s notice)


Why would you need to hide your face?
Describe it to me, she sounds so interested
Maybe she is – it’s always hard to tell with
Therapists – anyhow, as I say, I am pretty sick
So feel I have no choice and tell her how I look
(As if I have been crying for a week straight and my
Whole face is swollen and red, not just my eyes
Which are mere slits – I know how truly ugly
I am and I hate myself more than ever)

Is that why you need to be in the dome,
On your stool, she wants to know ...
I give her question careful consideration
I know that it’s part of it but not everything
There are so many things that make me feel unsafe
But most of them – I don’t even know how
To begin to articulate; she tells me


That I can stay on my stool under my dome
As long as I need to and return there anytime
I have her permission to give myself permission
To keep this safe place for myself and she wonders
If this has been helpful – I tell her I think so but
I’ll have to let her know ...