by Rachna K.

Waiting in the lobby, I see an Afghani woman 
on The Wall Street Journal
holding a photo of her kidnapped son.
Reminds I've never returned.

My shrink lectures me about personality disorders.
He hands me two pamphlets, one crackling 
with self-love, the other, sanity.

I undress my sins, describe the sensation
of warm sand on my skin, 
the lingering smell of burning flesh.
Voices that have set up house inside.

He writes a prescription. Talks about 
post war syndrome with a side 
of a constant clicking ball-point pen. I 
study his double chin, his doughy neck.

Someday, he'll know things humans are capable of: 
hauling hope and despair on the same spine.
How the stubborn soldier in you harbors hate,
pops in small, white pills and calls it peace.