This doctor
brandishes the same map
of a head’s interior

that I’ve seen at least
eight times before and it looks
even older than I do.

Before she gets in
she reassures me she knows
where she’s going.

I close my ears and eyes
to her. No, I said,
I don’t see how that’s 

possible. I live in here
full time and I’ve never
seen you. Trust me,

it’s really fucking weird in here
and your map won’t help.
I’m not even sure I can help,

never mind anyone else. Let me try,
she says; I know how you feel
but it’s a very scientific map

and I have done this before. I know
there is always something new
and unexpected but I’m prepared.

She wore me down, waving that map at me.
I’m so tired of thinking I’m going
to die from this, I let her in.

She comes in and leaves now
at regular intervals.
I sit with that.

Yes, it’s tangible; the soft touching
of weak pink knots, the occasional kneading
of what must feel to her like wet dough,

a relaxing vacancy when she leaves
that fills back in when I get home.
I don’t ever know if I’m better after

or just more ready to face
the edge of the map
when she gets there

and we both fall
into the margins
where the dragons are.