I just learned about bilateral
tapping— crossed arms, fingers
drumming a light rhythm on each
shoulder. My therapist says this
is a way to signal both hemispheres
of the brain to lower the volume
on the frantic, on the panic, as if
anxiety is a kind of bad engineering
(which I guess it is) that's set off
smoke alarms in the chest. This is
also because the mind can be in many
places at once: red lights at different
intersections, the runway shimmering,
the indeterminate depth of the drop at
its end. All these years my first impulse
was to run from any building ripple, any
hint of an undertow. In my head I was
always rehearsing evacuation routes,
considering where to pile sandbags. This
exercise is supposed to remind me what I keep
forgetting: I am right here, I am not drowning.
A wave rises, breaks, scatters. I try
to imagine a different scenario— a cellist
on the beach, his wire-rimmed spectacles
catching the fading light, his coat-
tails in the foam. His hand, bowing long,
sure notes into the evening. Music almost
thick enough to wade through. A crowd
of pelicans tilting their heads to one side,
listening not for danger but for beauty.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
