I tell my therapist that I do not want to cry

because it’s two in the afternoon
and there’s a turtle

sunbathing on a felled tree
in the marsh outside of her office window.

A Great Blue Heron hobbles close,
and it’s probable that the two are holding

a silent confessional barred in by a community
of water lilies that are tethered to mire.

She asks, how I feel when I talk
about home — I hold my rib cage close

to her ear so she can hear the wind howl. 

    Sarah Jones is our December Poet in Residence.


    Previously: Relish, and Poem About Bugs.