Miss Diagnosis

I break down in hysterical tears

the morning I realize

Dad took the blow-dryer

when Mom kicked him out.

Sobbing, I grip

the cupboard door,

one hand covering my mouth,

as I stare at the space

where the Conair should be

my hair dripping cold and

silent around my shoulders.

Mom announces

I’m not actually upset

about the blow-dryer.

Proudly points out I’m really reacting

to my father leaving

displaced emotion

Psychology 101,

her education in action.

Running fingers

through limp, wet strands,

I can admit

I’m super sad

about Dad leaving

to live on a friend’s couch,

but as I squeeze water from clumped hair,

my grief is sharp and focused

on my unruly,

frizzy

day ahead.