The Guru Looks a Whole Lot Like Jesus

he smiles across a cracked screen,a thicket of beard,his voice like melons.He speaks in English,and I fall asleep.

My therapist says I have an issuewith authority.

I say, no shit.I got tiredraising the womanmeant to raise me.

After four days of ice breakersand eating with our eyes closed,

the woman leading the workshop,the one who never blinks,

makes us invite friendsto hear the gospel of happy,

featuring a general in the Indian army.He says meditation has made himso calm.

I sit still in my chair.I do not breathe.

When I was three,my mother saved my lifeand I became hers,a box.

I am used to not feeling.

But she is not here.

I tell the woman it’s irresponsible.And she smiles.

She admires my tenacity,goes back to her story.

Asks, if you found the curewhy would you hide it?

I know her face.It cannot hear.

I am sick of womenwho remind me of my mother.

On the worst days,I think about her dying.

About the dayI am freed.

The woman collects the checksand I leave,hoping for something elseto believe.