I don’t get depressed. When sad,
I turn inward, backward, ponder
my timeline, consider what I might
create next. I’m not the kind
who stays in bed all day or lets
dishes collect in the sink. I drink
coffee, not wine for breakfast, make
herbal tea in the afternoon to soothe
my roiling brain after a day of all
bad news. When I find myself
worrying about the teenage kids
of a mother deported to Mexico,
wondering how they’re doing,
who’s paying the rent, I look
out the window to see the trees
leafed out in their early green
of spring. Though it’s May,
the heat is on, blowing hot air
up the vents, telling me it’s okay
to sleep some more. The cats
are sleeping, as is my old dog.
I’m going back to bed. Don’t call
it depression. It’s healthcare.
Joan Mazza
Joan Mazza worked as a microbiologist and psychotherapist, and taught workshops on understanding dreams and nightmares. She is the author of six self-help psychology books, including Dreaming Your Real Self (Penguin/Putnam). Her poetry has appeared in Potomac Review, The Comstock Review, Prairie Schooner, Adanna Literary Journal, Slant, Poet Lore, and The Nation. She lives in rural central Virginia.