I sat on Balzac’s lap, Betula said.
The psychiatrist twitched his nose,
Scribbled notes. Where was this?
Outside a Paris cafe. He looked up
At her and stared. Were you alone?
No Balzac was there. He scribbled
More notes, his pen moved quickly
Across the page. Anyone else?
My grandmother. Can she substantiate
You sitting on Balzac’s lap? Yes, she
Was there. Where about does your
Grandmother live? She doesn’t.
Doesn’t what? He asked. Live. She
Died some years back, but she does
Visit. The psychiatrist frowned, scribbled
More notes. Do you see anyone else?
Yes, my sister, Alice. Is she dead, too?
Oh, no, she lives at home with Mother.
He sat back in his chair that squeaked.
Betula put her hands on the arms of
Her chair and moved them backward
And forward, studying the psychiatrist,
His deep set eyes, his thick brows, his
Thin lips. Why did you sit on Balzac’s lap?
He asked. Because he said I could, she
Replied, feeling the warmth from rubbing
Her hands on the arms of the chair. Do you
Know who Balzac was? He asked. He said
He was a writer, Betula said, putting
Her hands in her lap. He died in 1850,
The psychiatrist said. Yes, I know,
Betula muttered, he said. He scribbled
More notes. He gazed at her. It’s all in
Your mind, he said, these things you say
You see and do. Balzac said you’d say that,
She replied, said no one would believe what
I said about him and sitting on his lap.
The psychiatrist took out a peppermint,
Put it in his mouth and ****** Betula
Looked over his head and said, Grandmother
Says I’m done for, Balzac says, I’m ******
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
I sat on Balzac’s lap, Betula said.
The psychiatrist twitched his nose,
Scribbled notes. Where was this?
Outside a Paris cafe. He looked up
At her and stared. Were you alone?
No Balzac was there. He scribbled
More notes, his pen moved quickly
Across the page. Anyone else?
My grandmother. Can she substantiate
You sitting on Balzac’s lap? Yes, she
Was there. Where about does your
Grandmother live? She doesn’t.
Doesn’t what? He asked. Live. She
Died some years back, but she does
Visit. The psychiatrist frowned, scribbled
More notes. Do you see anyone else?
Yes, my sister, Alice. Is she dead, too?
Oh, no, she lives at home with Mother.
He sat back in his chair that squeaked.
Betula put her hands on the arms of
Her chair and moved them backward
And forward, studying the psychiatrist,
His deep set eyes, his thick brows, his
Thin lips. Why did you sit on Balzac’s lap?
He asked. Because he said I could, she
Replied, feeling the warmth from rubbing
Her hands on the arms of the chair. Do you
Know who Balzac was? He asked. He said
He was a writer, Betula said, putting
Her hands in her lap. He died in 1850,
The psychiatrist said. Yes, I know,
Betula muttered, he said. He scribbled
More notes. He gazed at her. It’s all in
Your mind, he said, these things you say
You see and do. Balzac said you’d say that,
She replied, said no one would believe what
I said about him and sitting on his lap.
The psychiatrist took out a peppermint,
Put it in his mouth and ****** Betula
Looked over his head and said, Grandmother
Says I’m done for, Balzac says, I’m ******
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