Thursday, May 28, 2015

Sarah Frances Moran- Three Poems

The Sofa #1

I sat across from her thinking she couldn’t be much older than me.
I wondered if she was gay.  This was in fact the Montrose Counseling
Center that catered to LBGTQ community of Houston so I wondered, is that a pre-requisite? 
It was childish assuming.  She was pretty, blond and had
a smile I’m sure she’d worked on making people comfortable. 

It made me feel awkward.

I wondered these things when I was supposed to be thinking about how to
introduce why I was there.  My palms were sweaty, I was chewing the inside
of my cheek raw and my right foot wouldn’t stop violently tapping the ground.

The sofa was so soft that I sank into it and I hated it. 
It made me feel more vulnerable than I already did.
She looked at me and looked at my file.  She broke the silence,
it looks like you’re battling some depression and anxiety.  You qualified
for a small grant to help with these sessions.  You’ll get ten to start out with
and after that we’ll decide if you need more.

10 sessions.  I’d never make 10 sessions on this sofa.

I looked at her and said, I really hate this sofa,
and that’s how our relationship into fixing my broken started.

The Sofa #2

She wanted to know about my mother. 
I didn’t want to talk about my mother.  I fidgeted uncomfortably.  
This fucking sofa.

I tell her that I’m crazy about my mother.
She tells me I need boundaries.

I want to leave.

She talks in monotones and remains mellow despite
my irritation.
She asks me if I have a habit of not putting myself first.
She tells me I need to find a happy place in my head.
I laugh.

At this moment, there are no happy places in my head.
I wonder how it would feel to have sex on this too soft sofa.
I’m bored.
I’m unfocused.
She asks me why I’m here.  Reminds me that I came here for help.
I start thinking about boundaries.
Fences, houses, landscapes, jails, prisons…how much love we give.

Time is up.  She tells me my homework is to make a list of things
I want to say to those who’ve hurt me.
I scoot up and off the sofa.
I leave.

I make a list I never intend to share.

The Sofa #3

I tell her all about my panic attacks and
my nightmares.
She tells me I have PTSD.

We stare blankly at each other.

She asks me to lay back on the sofa.
Immediately I think of every therapy sofa cliche
in a matter of seconds.
She tells me to close my eyes and think of a happy place.
For a brief moment I think of a beach, palm trees and the sounds
of seagulls
but I don’t know why.

My lack of understanding for my own mind makes me start laughing.
I sit up and look over.

She’s staring at me like I’m the pain in the ass that I am and
I’m pretty sure she hates me.
I’m pretty sure she has no idea what to do with me.
She asks me if I have thought about what she suggested last session
about setting boundaries with my family.

I tell her no.
She tells me she’s going to prescribe me Lexapro.
I say ok.

This begins my mind’s path on anti-anxiety anti-depressants.
I get up off that too fucking soft sofa and head to
the pharmacy.

Sarah Frances Moran is a stick-a-love-poem-in-your-back-pocket kind of poet. She thinks Chihuahuas should rule the world and prefers their company to people 90% of the time. She believes words are immeasurably powerful; more powerful than She-ra’s thighs. To read more of her thigh powered words visit

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