After each session, Linda arrives at the conclusion that I must try breathing exercises. Anxiety, she says, cheerfully, is common for teens. Then she swipes my mother’s credit card through her machine. It sometimes doesn’t go through the first time. Sorry, she says, laughing breathlessly. Then swipes it through again. I don’t like the way she swipes it with carefree imprecision, like she’s dabbing the sides of her mouth after eating a salad. My OCD wills her to retry it, again and again a third time, just to be safe. (After therapy it curls up next to me. Well, was it worth it? Do you still want to be rid of me?) We both know its three-lettered non-body understands me better than anybody. Better than the sensor rejecting Amma’s AMEX card. (You can’t get more American than AMEX. Something must be amiss. Perhaps, after cooking in Ma’s immigrant wallet it refuses to assimilate. Fuck that, it said. Fuck Linda and her racist machine.) I can’t wait to be old enough to get a job to pay for a service I know isn’t working. Linda doesn’t care when things don’t work. She believes things give eventually. So, she swipes the card again. Once more, Linda. With feeling. I want her to swipe it again and again and again and again and again again and again and again and again and again again and again and again and again and again again and again and again and again and again again and again and again and again and again again and again and again and again and again again and again and again and again and again again and again and again and again and again again and again and again and again and again again and again and again and again and again again and again and again and again and again again and again and again and again and again I want her to assimilate the swipes into a meditative practice, like breathing exercises, like knitting. I want her to charge my mother endlessly for all she does not know about me.

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published weekly by Glass Poetry Press.
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