Poetry at Sangam



The Addiction Counsellor by Rhian Edwards

has a tranquilizing voice.
He wears his glasses on his scalp,
the crown of an understated prince.

The addiction counsellor’s irises
are tucked far behind his crow’s feet.
I edge closer than fiduciary allows
to discern the colours I am dealing with.

I confess to the addiction counsellor
that I’m not really addicted to anything.
He informs me to the contrary, tells
me I am hungry to be touched.

The addiction counsellor has feathers
instead of fingers. He holds my hipbones
lightly as he passes me in the doorway.

The addiction counsellor gives me a bottle
of Mo√ęt for buying my very first house.
The addiction counsellor asks me
if his gesture is too much.

I have stopped listening to the addiction
counsellor, my attention rapt
with his futon in the room next door.

I tell my daughter on the way to nursery,
the addiction counsellor puts butterflies
in Mummy’s tummy. She rightly reprimands
me for eating butterflies again.