My editor suggests that I might
need therapy. It’s a polite suggestion,
the way you might place a deodorant
stick on a co-worker’s desk.
She left me a yellow Post-it note
on my latest chapter,
the big turn where my protagonist,
a Catholic mother, poisons the
dog and tells the kids Satan
came during the night.
I don’t think she ever got
to the “extra” turn I inserted,
after the denouement, how
the mother feels remorse, takes
all the vacation money for
the kids’ summer trip, donates
it to the SPCA, quits drinking
except on the weekends, divorces
her husband, becomes a feminine
Buddha, traverses the world, sits
under trees and meditates, no makeup.
Not sure she read the dedication to my
therapist or the disclaimer that any correlation
to folks living or dead was purely coincidental.
