SEVEN ANXIETIES YOU CAN HAVE 1.The Body Am I too fat? Too thin? Do I dare to eat a peach Or any damn thing. Do I need my nose done My lips, my chin? A tuck under my chin Like god tucking me in 2.Relationships Does he love me? Does he love me not? Does he even know what love is That damn egocentric, narcissistic Selfish son of a lonely man who never knew how to What a bore this therapy sometimes is 3.The Children Should I keep letting them go to their Fathers? Wonít his endless depression Affect them badly? Would it be worse for them If I said No, donít go, youíre never going there again Wasnít it bad enough that I put up with him all those years Are the sins of the father visited upon the children During visits. Enough. Iíll go to court. All these fears. 4.The House on Holidays Did I turn off the Gas? Did I turn on the gas? Did I remember to bite his cheek? Feed the dog? Feed the demon of my strange relationship with mother? Will I get published in the New Yorker? Can I breathe Under the sea. Will Gwyneth Paltrow be able to do me? What a bore this therapy is sometimes 5.Relationships Again Maybe this time I can get it right? Does he even know what it means to me Walking out alone after all this time into that dark and unknown night Another human being into my life, my series of lives Surely after all this therapy Iíll get it right Wish I had the courage, wish I had the fight Wish I had the body of the girl I was All those worlds away Sixteen, hopeful, fearful and tight 6.For Money I never should have taken on the house But if he loves me wonít he keep me Why does he spend so much Time with his secretary Could I face work again? What could I do? Can I afford this therapy? Can I afford not to? 7.And Love How do we make that? The porcupines, the music The moon, the biscuits, patiently and tenderly Like wind, like shared experience, the glass sea The garden, cooking, both of us reading The earth heaving up like magma All this fire and smoke and mirrors The Americans running everything What to expect. They lied. They didnít have the subtlety The time, the longer view, the ice-age The bird flies up through that crack in imagery, that sky Never quite meeting the two tectonic plates I meet in therapy each week, the gin How strong she is, how surprising My father, my mother, how grey, how thin And all that shit, singing Every atom glowing After all this time, bodyrelationshipsfriends childrenclothesbooks, phone calls, these endless phone calls, this voice The house on holidays, these relationships again, this honey, this ruin, This blood, this money, this currency, this fluency This language, this poetry, this music This.