by Edward Lee
Dead Psychiatrist
You once told me about kundalini energy, and how to summon it. I wonder if I showed up in the brown celluloid flash as that last white-hot ball of energy blasted into the universe, leaving a rusty burnt circle on the crown of your head–end of film click, click, clicking on the projector. I imagine you there, lying in the ground after eight years, maybe in your dress uniform (although I don’t think you’d want to make your exit in something so formal). I see your head leaning to the side, a careless pallbearer lost his grip no doubt. A tiny line of red purge winds its way down the philtrum, filling the groove between your lips–no white mold covering half your face (the second wife coughed up the cash for a leak proof vault); good for her! I can smell the scent of stale orange slice candy your kids placed in your pockets.
You once told me about transference. You were a rogue exoplanet spinning and spewing grainy silicate, enough to scour my flesh and bone all the way down to my raw heart, smoothing it like green sea glass. And I transferred onto you, a blank t-shirt, pressing myself into every corner and ironing out all the wrinkles. You wore me well, for a few years. Colors changing with every new pill you unceremoniously plunked down on my tongue–wholesome green for Prozac (just a little pick-me-up), tie-dye for Effexor (to help with those annoying crying spells every time I wake up), purple for Nardil (when I can’t stop those pesky compulsive thoughts about Jesus climbing down from the crucifix) and black for Lithium (Dear God, Lithium).
You once told me about Wilbur and Charlotte. After three years, you ETSed right out of my life, and I left for Germany. I got it! I was Wilbur and you were Charlotte. We were doctor and patient, friends, and then something altogether inappropriate. And now I had to move on without you and learn to accept your symbolic death. For so many years I wanted to talk to you, to confront you, to scream at you. I wasn’t sure which I wanted to do, maybe all of them.
I still need to talk to you, to stitch the frayed ends of my dark memory to the edge of clear blue day—finish off every knot and sew in the tails. Fold it all and put it away. But where does that energy go anyway? Are you a ghost a hundred light years in the past–smoky, rotting nebula arms reaching back toward earth? Or are you haunting that tiny dell you grew up in? Or are you watching your wife make love to your old next-door neighbor, the orthopedic surgeon? I’m listening, but you’re not talking anymore. My unanswered questions as insignificant as a plastic Walmart bag stuck on prickly blackberry briars, on the side of the highway.
F.D. Jackson (she/her) lives in the southeastern U.S., along with her husband and sundry furry family members. She writes about loss/grief and the restorative and transformative power of nature, as well as anything else that piques her interest. When she’s not writing or reading, she can be found wandering the Gulf Coast with a cold drink in her hand. F.D. has been lucky enough to have work published in journals like Book of Matches and Poetry Breakfast.
Edward Lee is an artist and writer from Ireland. His paintings and photography have been exhibited widely, while his poetry, short stories, non-fiction have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths Knoll. His poetry collections are Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge, The Madness Of Qwerty, A Foetal Heart and Bones Speaking With Hard Tongues. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com.