Now, there are May flowers
blooming out of my bald spot
from April where I lost my umbrella.

These are the truths to be told --
not the ones to cover up, like
schizophrenia runs in my family

(I try to hide that from my therapist)
what good would that do, she’d pick
daffodils from my head, plant them in her vase,

say to me they didn’t exist. I won’t reveal
the scars I had in early March from the lion,
or the case of mint jelly I ate later that month either.

It left a good taste in my mouth, unlike
the new prescription she ripped from her book
trying to take the spring from my step.