On the call I could not see her face, 
silhouetted by the window at her back.
Did not know whether she was here 
or somewhere more exotic—perhaps in
Greece, the place portended by her name. 
I had just been given an email, with no
instructions, and no real idea what 
was waiting on the call. You must now endure
this dangling, she said. You have
prophetic dreams. She said between one
session and another she did not remember
details—it was never herself speaking. She said
there was a fine line between surrender
and effort. I must be on the lookout 
for animal guides, she said—a downy 
woodpecker, a solemn ash—vegetable, too?
Whatever was living that spoke back. 
She gave me a prayer and said that she
had trouble meeting my ex’s third eye. 
She’s ashamed. I hadn’t asked her to, 
but left the call feeling both strangely
quenched and cleared—like I was 
the tree where the woodpecker 
had plunged his beak. 

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