Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Batsheva Dori-Carlier

COUPLES THERAPY

It’s hard to focus this way on our relationship, knowing
how much the session costs.
Behavioral theory makes everything sound simple
between these chilly walls. But how can we squeeze tenderness
                          between the drums of the washing machine and dryer,
when we must work, cover the overdraft with a blanket of cash,
run to pick up the boy from nursery school in the afternoon
and set a weekly date night? We who haven’t got the energy to dress up
and start romantic fires when books call out to us like lovers
and pillows catch our nodding heads
at midnight. It’s late:
we’ve turned into an equation with two unknowns
in the lit room of a stranger with a sympathetic smile who advises
“fake it till you make it”. Words crash on a ground of silence.
She rummages in the black box of marriage,
looking for vestiges of libido. We sit almost together on the green sofa,
offering a bunch of rustling paper money to the therapist, as if she were smuggling us
to a safer country: “byeseeyounextweekatthesametime”.

טיפול זוגי

טיפול זוגי

קָשֶׁה לְהִתְרַכֵּז כָּכָה בַּזּוּגִיוּת, אֲנַחְנוּ יוֹדְעִים
שֶׁהַסֵשֵׁן עוֹלֶה שְׁלוֹשׁ מֵאוֹת שְׁקָלִים חֲדָשִׁים.
הַכֹּל נִשְׁמַע פָּשׁוּט כָּל כָּךְ בַּתֵּאוֹרְיָה הַבִּיהֵבְיוֹרִיסְטִית
בֵּין אַרְבָּעָה קִירוֹת קְרִירִים. אֵיךְ לִדְחֹס רֹךְ זוּגִי בֵּין תֻּפֵּי מְכוֹנַת הַכְּבִיסָה
 לַמְּיַבֵּשׁ כְּשֶׁצָּרִיךְ לַעֲבֹד, לְכַסּוֹת מִינוּס בִּשְׂמִיכַת מְזֻמָּנִים,
לָרוּץ לֶאֱסֹף אֶת הַיֶּלֶד מֵהַגַּן בְּשָׁלוֹשׁ חֲמִשִּׁים וְחָמֵשׁ
וְאֵיךְ לִיזֹם דֵּייְט שְׁבוּעִי? אֵין כֹּחַ לְהִתְלַבֵּשׁ בִּמְיֻחָד
וּלְהַתְנִיעַ הִתְלַהֲבוּת רוֹמַנְטִית כְּשֶׁהַסְּפָרִים קוֹרְאִים לָנוּ כִּמְחַזְּרִים
וְכָרְיוֹת רַכּוֹת קּוֹלְטוֹת אֶת רָאשֵׁינוּ הַצּוֹנְחִים
בְּשָׁעָה עֶשְׂרִים וְשָׁלוֹשׁ וּשְׁלוֹשִׁים. מְאֻחָר:
הָפַכְנוּ לְמִשְׁוָאָה עִם שְׁנֵי עֲיֵפִים נֶעֱלָמִים זֶה לְזוֹ
בְּחֶדֶר מוּאָר בְּבַיִת שֶׁל אִשָּׁה זָרָה, הַמְּיַעֶצֶת לָנוּ בְּחִיּוּךְ אֵמְפָּתִי
""fake it until you make it. הַמִּלִּים מִתְרַסְּקוֹת עַל אַדְמַת הַשְּׁתִיקָה.
הִיא נוֹבֶרֶת בְּקֻפְסַת הַנִּשּׁוּאִים הַשְּׁחוֹרָה,
מְנַסֶּה לְאַתֵּר שְׂרִידֵי לִיבִּידוֹ. יוֹשְׁבִים כִּמְעַט צְמוּדִים עַל שְׂפַת סַפָּה יְרֻקָּה,
מוֹשִׁיטִים לַמְּטַפֶּלֶת צְרוֹר שְׁטָרוֹת מְרַשְׁרֵשׁ, כְּאִלּוּ הָיְתָה מָבְרִיחַת גְּבוּל
לְאֶרֶץ בְּטוּחָה יוֹתֵר: "לְהִתְרָאוֹתבְּשָׁבוּעַהַבָּאבְּאוֹתָההַשָּׁעָה". 
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COUPLES THERAPY

It’s hard to focus this way on our relationship, knowing
how much the session costs.
Behavioral theory makes everything sound simple
between these chilly walls. But how can we squeeze tenderness
                          between the drums of the washing machine and dryer,
when we must work, cover the overdraft with a blanket of cash,
run to pick up the boy from nursery school in the afternoon
and set a weekly date night? We who haven’t got the energy to dress up
and start romantic fires when books call out to us like lovers
and pillows catch our nodding heads
at midnight. It’s late:
we’ve turned into an equation with two unknowns
in the lit room of a stranger with a sympathetic smile who advises
“fake it till you make it”. Words crash on a ground of silence.
She rummages in the black box of marriage,
looking for vestiges of libido. We sit almost together on the green sofa,
offering a bunch of rustling paper money to the therapist, as if she were smuggling us
to a safer country: “byeseeyounextweekatthesametime”.

COUPLES THERAPY

It’s hard to focus this way on our relationship, knowing
how much the session costs.
Behavioral theory makes everything sound simple
between these chilly walls. But how can we squeeze tenderness
                          between the drums of the washing machine and dryer,
when we must work, cover the overdraft with a blanket of cash,
run to pick up the boy from nursery school in the afternoon
and set a weekly date night? We who haven’t got the energy to dress up
and start romantic fires when books call out to us like lovers
and pillows catch our nodding heads
at midnight. It’s late:
we’ve turned into an equation with two unknowns
in the lit room of a stranger with a sympathetic smile who advises
“fake it till you make it”. Words crash on a ground of silence.
She rummages in the black box of marriage,
looking for vestiges of libido. We sit almost together on the green sofa,
offering a bunch of rustling paper money to the therapist, as if she were smuggling us
to a safer country: “byeseeyounextweekatthesametime”.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère