Author: Joan Mazza

is an archeology of journals,

unearthing the entombed past,

layers within layers, exposing

the true character of characters.

Who can remember who said

what, or when? What did I reply?

Who knows how long it took to learn

their customs and kinship rites

when so much was omertà? How

can I be sure if what I wrote

in journals at that time expressed

my true feelings? Or was it my inner

parrot memorizing, reciting back

for that old carrot? I learned through

indirection, signals, distractions

which subjects were taboo. Don’t call

this vendetta or revenge. There’s enough

blame and blackmail for all. I never had my

say, was never understood. Autonomous,

now I’m digging down, digging in

to grasp the last rubble of memory,

to comprehend how I hooked onto

someone who called himself analyst,

not the puppet master, cult leader, pimp,

and scammer he exposed himself to be.

It’s right here in writing, in my hand,

inked on these bound pages. How clearly

I revealed the doubts in my own words

that no one perceived or heard. Changed,

I wish I’d listened, read my pages.

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.