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.