A Psychology of Space

A Psychology of Space

The window is in front of you
as you’re asked to be seated
so you can break the glass,
so you can fly through if needed.
A view of birds fighting
for seed at an empty feeder
or a playground full of preschoolers
screaming, slide and swings
anchored in pavement.

The instruments are behind you
so you can’t see the silver tools
sharp and cruelly gleaming.
The needles and drills are invisible.
As with god and love, it’s difficult
to believe in what you can’t see
or feel. The walls on either side of you
don’t connect with the ceiling
so your cries won’t go unheard;

all of the patients in the waiting
room flipping impatiently
through magazines without seeing
the pages will feel your pain too.
This is how I want to love you.
I close my eyes as the Novocain
is injected. Not so bad. Just a pinch
then the tongue goes numb.
I can say nothing. I can live
with that. Can’t you?