Aubade (v2)

[matsunosuperfan]

Aubade

Therapy's the worst. The talking does no good:
no one understands anyone they haven't slept with
yet. A plant in every office, so when you think back
on how you've always shit on those who loved you,
there's a metaphor for hope. Then the flaccid questions,
like you're some retarded child: What feels like spring
to you right now? What do you really want? I want to go
back twenty years and fuck the kid I used to be so hard
he walks home sideways like a crab, I want a second
heart. When he turned forty, Dad finally made my mom
the happiest woman alive and started seeing Doctor
Schlumpberger. They'd read the books together,
do the work, my stubborn father dog-earing the pages
he would never cry over again. We all knew it was bullshit:
there's no real cure for life. One December night
out in the Castro Valley wilderness, drunk on chardonnay
and being much too young and beautiful, the wrong guy
took me home. I never told the doctor how I woke up
missing certain parts, a knuckle blue and sunken in,
a crowbar in my gut. My breathing slow and even somewhere
far away from me. How quick the sun came up behind me,
how I walked home cradling a potted marigold the neighbors
must have thrown away. What would I even say—I don't know,
I guess this morning someone looked at this thing and decided
it was trash?

Previous draft 
Aubade

Therapy's the worst. Everyone I know already understands themselves
better than anyone who hasn't spent a night inside their body. Their offices
all have the same anemic plant shoved in a corner, so when you think back
on all the ways you've shit on everyone who loved you, you see something
green and living in the room, which helps with ideation. They ask these flaccid
questions, like you're some retarded child: Let's explore your feelings, what is it
you really want? I want to go back twenty years and fuck the kid I used to be
so hard he walks home sideways like a crab, Doc—how bout you? When he
turned forty, Dad finally made my mom the happiest woman alive and started
seeing Dr. Schlumpberger. They'd meditate together over every child, my father
summoning his ancestors to give him strength and better vision. We all knew
it was bullshit: there's no real cure for life. One December night out in the Castro
Valley wilderness, drunk on chardonnay and being much too young and
beautiful, the wrong guy took me home. I never told the doctor how I woke
behind a dumpster with my hands still zip-tied to my feet, a crowbar in my gut.
My breathing slow and even somewhere far away from me. How quick the sun
came up behind me, how I walked home cradling a potted marigold the neighbors
must have thrown away. What would I even say—Hey Doc, this morning
someone took one look at this thing and decided it was trash? 

[Naish]

Hello!
So much to love here. The voice, the humour, the dark emotional architecture that builds slowly through the piece.

My main gripe is compression. There are places where the poem explains or embellishes something that is already working perfectly well on its own.

If the poem were a patient, I think it would tell its shrink that what it wants most right now is a fewer words.

Opening

Therapy’s the worst. Everyone I know already understands themselves better than anyone who hasn’t spent a night inside their body.

This is good, but perhaps runs a little long. It reminds me of the sunscreen song — it’s got wisdom and wit, but it’s marinating in prose. Could it be stripped back and made stronger for it? Without losing the voice.

The office plant

Their offices all have the same anemic plant shoved in a corner, so when you think back on all the ways you’ve shit on everyone who loved you, you see something green and living in the room, which helps with ideation.

I stumbled over the referent here. Initially, it sounds as though you’re referring to everyone you know who understands themselves better than anyone else. Perhaps redirect the attention: “All shrinks have the same anemic plant…” or something along those lines.

The therapist’s questions

I think there’s some padding here. You have several modifiers doing similar work around the therapist’s questions. I’d argue one or two could go. Compression. You could at least drop the first question and get to the more interesting one sooner.

They ask these flaccid questions, like you’re some retarded child: Let’s explore your feelings, what is it you really want? I want to go back twenty years and fuck the kid I used to be so hard he walks home sideways like a crab, Doc—how bout you?

For me, the “Doc—how bout you?” goes a step too far. It reads a little cutesy and, after such a brutal and effective image, steals some of its thunder. The idea of the adult self fucking over its former self is already doing a lot of work. I’d give that image more room to breathe rather than puncturing it with another joke.

In fact, I think this is an important image to preserve and perhaps make more space for, because it echoes so strongly in the ending.

Dad and therapy

When he turned forty, Dad finally made my mom the happiest woman alive and started seeing Dr. Schlumpberger.

I like the dark humour here.

They’d meditate together over every child, my father summoning his ancestors to give him strength and better vision.

I kept wanting this to read “mediated” rather than “meditated”, which might be an interesting ambiguity to play with. The jump from psychology to spirituality is a little abrupt for me. Perhaps prepare the reader with a reference to generational trauma, parts work/Internal Family Systems, or Jung’s shadow work before Dad goes full-on hippy. Or maybe even breathwork to tie into ending.

We all knew it was bullshit: there’s no real cure for life.

Hands down, my favourite line in the poem.

The revelation

The transition into the final stanza is powerful. The casualness of “drunk on chardonnay and being much too young and beautiful” before the violence is particularly effective. There’s something chilling about the retrospective matter-of-factness.

My breathing slow and even somewhere far away from me.

This image is exquisite. The dissociation is conveyed perfectly and mirrors meditation from earlier.

How quick the sun came up behind me, how I walked home cradling a potted marigold the neighbors must have thrown away.

The marigold is a fantastic image. It carries associations of grief, death, the sun and renewal, and the fact that it’s discarded makes the final line even more affecting.

What would I even say—Hey Doc, this morning someone took one look at this thing and decided it was trash.

Phenomenal close. It works on so many levels. I particularly like that you don’t explicitly tell us what the marigold represents. The parallel between the discarded flower and the speaker is left for the reader to discover. And the flower also brings us back to the anemic plant in the therapist’s office, transforming that earlier detail.

I do have a couple of practical questions about the physical details. A dumpster seems a long way from home, unless it’s the neighbours’ dumpster? And how exactly does someone walk home with their hands zip-tied to their feet? I found myself trying to work out the mechanics rather than staying inside the experience.

Could you play with the crab-walking image from earlier and find a way to bring that physicality back here? Not necessarily that image, but something reminiscent. There might be an opportunity for a really interesting echo between the two passages.

One other small thing: “Doc” chafes a little here, too. It doesn’t quite match the register of the surrounding stanza. I’d consider whether you need it at all.
Thanks for sharing!
/Naish

[matsunosuperfan]

Dude, you're a heavy. You better post something so I can repay your generous notes. Thanks for such a careful reading, I love all your feedback, will consider it well<3