Alec Solomita’s fiction has appeared in the Southwest Review, The Mississippi Review, Southword Journal, and The Drum (audio), among other publications. He was shortlisted by the Bridport Prize and Southword Journal. His poetry has appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Gnashing Teeth Publishing, The Galway Review, Bold + Italic, Litbreak, Subterranean Blue Poetry, The Blue Nib, Red Dirt Forum, and elsewhere.  His chapbook, “Do Not Forsake Me,” was published in 2017 and is still available at Finishing Line Press. His first full-length book of poetry, “Hard To Be a Hero,” was published  by Kelsay Press in 2021. Both can be found on Amazon. He’s just finished another, “Small Change.” He lives in Massachusetts.

In an Octopus’s Garden

I plunged into depression
after my last session with Matt
and I don’t know why.
I felt so bad I just wanted to
I don’t fucking know what,
and this is me, who hates the
use in poetry of the word “fuck”
in any of its many forms.

But what I hate more than
the word fuck is the word (or phrase?)
“F-bomb.” How truly stupid is that
expression? I ask you. But I digress.
I don’t really know why I fell so hard
and fast. It was like tunneling into
darkness, a long dark dive into
a dark sea, and waiting for me there
eight-armed octopi, who slid
their slithery limbs around me,
suckers up and down each one.

Matt was his usual faux cis bearded
self, trying not to show emotion,
that is to say, sympathy or humor.
His method, as he describes it, demands
keeping boundaries intact. It’s intentional.
But where in God’s name does it say
that your therapist has to struggle
away from emotional attachment.
Isn’t that supposed to be how transference
performs its little miracles?

I don’t know. I simply don’t. Afterwards,
I did a weird thing. There’s this bartender
I really like (not you, Charlie) and I’d heard she’d moved
to another venue, had to, after Rudy’s closed.
And not even knowing her schedule or
anything, I decided to take my chances
and drive over there; it was almost five,
anyway. So I asked Siri to direct me
and, as always, she did an astonishing
job. How does she know you’re stopped
at a light? God, I hate this brave new world!

Anyway, my friend wasn’t working this day
so I had a couple of drinks and split and
let Siri direct me home, where I took an
edible and a half, had a few more drinks,
watched some fucking, fucking, fucking Netflix,
then dove into my pillow for the night and
dreamt over and over about Charlie.