A Poem

was the year psychobabble and Cognitive Behavior Therapy

both made the pages of Merriam Webster’s Dictionary,

and my dad re-married.

My new word that summer in the backyard

of our new two-story house was hammock—

it had give, it made room for me. 

At nine, I could pull it around me

like a cocoon and go slack.

I was invisible when my dad 

kicked words like sand in her eyes,

You know who the problem is?

You’re the problem! 

I’m sick of your psychobabble—

put a sock in it, will ya? 

They had shut the door 

to the new screened-in porch,

so my brother and I wouldn’t hear.

(but I heard, in my cocoon)

What am I—your drudge, your babysitter? 

I know why you married me, I’m no idiot.

Those kids don’t even know how to make a bed;

she never taught them, and now it’s my job?

I learned cognitive behavior therapy

three decades after the summer 

I became a stepchild.

With this delicate tool, 

I reshape my lens and see true. 

CBT fits my mind like a felt tip pen fits my hand—

it has give, it makes room for me.