Week three, we meet.
I look to her eyes.
She greets me with an unwavering stream.
She reviews the sum-total of my life-experience,
still swimming into my eyes unafraid.
She does not hold herself separate for exploration,
dismisses those pretensions, for what's common
light.
I trust what I don't know about myself with her.
We haven't spoken expecting only confirmation.
Week four, I formally invite her to speak
on my behalf to a closed group of my inner selves
at the end of my retreat.
She noddingly agrees.
No words are exchanged.
The week ends and she enters,
giving everyone in my inner room
a pack of cheap post-card glances.
She admits that she knows of no moment
that can deliver us from this ‘yes’ moment at hand.
She then moves from the left to the right side
of our collective brain.
She draws from small pieces of my personal history
using her hands,
overcoming unnatural movements of her insincerity.
After all, she is speaking on my behalf.
Yes, through her tools of speech,
she is soothing a foreign conveyance
into the fabric of my truth . . .
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