There is therapy in the 2006 remastered version of “The Blood,” by The Cure.
There is also therapy in therapy,
even if it’s me talking to a screen in my kitchen, while my therapist tells me that labels are unnecessary.
There is therapy in vitamins and ritual, apples with peanut butter.
There is therapy in Siouxsie and the Banshees version of “This Town Ain’t Big Enough for Both of Us.”
There are rituals that end up being therapy.
Therapy on our knees, either in church or in front of our beloved.
In whiting out mistakes on paper, in looking at the flame of a candle during a blackout.
A flash in the sky, a black ocean, a flock of parakeets being obnoxious.
In the detail of your torso when you breathe.
In the grill marks of our dinner, and the crunch of our dessert.
Therapy is a prayer answered, an open parking space in a crowded grocery store.
Where a pendant lies,
where a compliment lives.
Music and laughter.
Crying in the middle of a meal.
Anointing celebrations on the third eye of my third eye.
A tambor mimicking my heartbeat,
in there lives my damage
and my remedy.