The last time my therapist smashed everything I know about myself into ruins

I tell Phil, she’s done it again.

Left everything in ruins, my eyes peeking

over broken piles of bricks, a crow

circling overhead looking for the birdbath

I put in the last time I had to rebuild 

myself from ground up. It was a wrecking

ball this time, but at least she left

foundations. Time before that,

even the footings had been ripped

up, every rooted memory I’d used

to stand up my home was found 

out,the neon nightmare of every room 

in the house locked from the outside, 

the percussion of palm

on cheek, the perfect pitch of broken

glass whistling inches from teeth.

Nothing to be done but build

again, this time a palace, this time

a home, a different set of histories

muddled, beige and green. Try

Lego, Phil says, try a spaceship,

try an artist’ studio, try a hideout

for a motorcycle gang. But I root

around in the rubble, and there’s

something under here 

I won’t let go.