my therapist

my therapist
is quiet.
she lets me do most
of talking.
nodding sweetly at my thoughts
and words,
a stream of consciousness.
I settle into the long couch
and begin.
often it sounds
like confession,
without the forgiveness,
without the metal screen,
the dark booth.
the smell of candles burning
on the altar.
she asks
if i'm in danger, or if
anyone I love is
in danger.
I tell her no. I don't
think so.
she says good.
there's a long pause
which means something.
how's your mother,
she finally asks,
breaking the silence.
dying, I tell her.
we all are she says.
we all are.