Psychiatric TimesPsychiatric Times Vol 17 No 7
Volume 17
Issue 7

Transference - Poetry of the Times

I can't remember what he says
this first session, only his careful attention,
and a sense he sees through my camouflage.
I feel I've known him a long time,
familiar as red in the maple outside
or the smell of leather on my father's skin.
When I cry, tissues are at hand,
and when I sob, he listens, alert,
silent, which comforts me and is sufficient.
And I feel closer to him than 50 minutes
should allow, a puzzled sensation
I've known him all my life.
Certain I have chosen wisely,
I reach out to say good-bye,
and in the instant I say Jerry
memory hits a nerve
with my dead father's name.


Read more of Dr. Berlin's work.

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