Yogurt

In psychotherapy at twelve I think of yogurt,
cherry greek yogurt at the cafeteria,
sweet smooth cool white thick yogurt
as Andrea chokes on the word boyfriend
who drives drunk, laughs about her illness with her son,
and she does not know who she is
because she worked like a slave
for her foster family since they took her
from the Philippines when she was thirteen.

The group is paralyzed and
cannot speak healing words or even
lift their eyes.
I let go, eat the bitterness, the rocks,
the heat, the blackness,
and eyes begin to lift as if out of a spell,
and none of us wish to be slaves any longer.