If able to shield the cat who lives
with me from loud and unexpected noises,
I will press him to my chest and carry him
over to the staircase before pushing
down the coffee grinder, cup my hands
to his ears once the vacuum starts
running (though a gentle act of palms
on his party-hat ears is already enough
to make him sprint in the opposite direction).
Kingsford has grown used to gunshots on
television, but I can do nothing for the
barrage of fireworks leading up to
America’s Independence
Day, nor conspiracy theories
which run rampant in the sky
(because what better a home
for fake facts than fireworks–
impossibly deafening bursts of light
in the night). Recently, I have been
joking that I can talk to him one-
on-one in a shared animal language,
and he looks to the wall to relay
the story of some spider who skulked
across chipped paint in the morning
hours, above where I slept,
deep in a dream louder
than any external noise–
enough to quell the sort
of revelation that makes
me believe our futures
are fucked. I wake up
refreshed enough to wait
for the day’s new din
of whatever war’s
beating on our screens
and walls and
my heavying heart.

(originally published in Subnivean, Winter 2021)