My Therapist Says Make Friends with Your Monsters
José Olivarez

we are gathered in truce
because my therapist said
it was time to stop running,

& i pay my therapist too much
to be wrong, so i am here.
my monsters look almost human

in the sterile office light.
my monsters say they want
to be friends. i remember

when we first met, me & my
monsters. i remember the moment
i planted each one. each time

i tried to shed a piece of myself,
it grew into a monster. take this one
with the collar of belly fat

the monster called Chubby, Husky,
Gordito. i climbed out of that skin
as fast as i could, only to see some spirit

give it legs. i ran & it never stopped
chasing me. each new humiliation
coming to life & following after me.

after me, a long procession of sad
monsters. each monster hungry
to drag me back, to return me

to the dirt i came from. ashes
to ashes, fat boy to fat.
my monsters crowd around me,

my therapist says i can’t
make the monsters disappear
no matter how much i pay her.

all she can do is bring them
into the room, so i can get
to know them, so i can learn

their names, so i can see
clearly their toothless mouths,
their empty hands, their pleading eyes.

Ars Poetica
BY José Olivarez

Migration is derived from the word “migrate,” which is a verb defined by Merriam-Webster as “to move from one country, place, or locality to another.” Plot twist: migration never ends. My parents moved from Jalisco, México to Chicago in 1987. They were dislocated from México by capitalism, and they arrived in Chicago just in time to be dislocated by capitalism. Question: is migration possible if there is no “other” land to arrive in. My work: to imagine. My family started migrating in 1987 and they never stopped. I was born mid-migration. I’ve made my home in that motion. Let me try again: I tried to become American, but America is toxic. I tried to become Mexican, but México is toxic. My work: to do more than reproduce the toxic stories I inherited and learned. In other words: just because it is art doesn’t mean it is inherently nonviolent. My work: to write poems that make my people feel safe, seen, or otherwise loved. My work: to make my enemies feel afraid, angry, or otherwise ignored. My people: my people. My enemies: capitalism. Susan Sontag: “victims are interested in the representation of their own sufferings.” Remix: survivors are interested in the representation of their own survival. My work: survival. Question: Why poems? Answer: