The crickets chirp when you sniff the cat–
that’s our bedtime routine.
Google asks us to set an alarm:
never.
(originally published in Winamop, Winter 2023)
cat
Where We Are Going
My hand gentle on the vibration of DQ’s back.
We ascribe memories to animals. Anthropomorphism
is our system. Kingsford’s scent lies on fewer and fewer
surfaces– we vacuumed his hairs, changed the covers
this August of grieving, and in bed we say
the living one dreams of her human family. If ever
there was a before in this cat’s life, if ever she could
recant her past to us– what I hate about the cage is
not the sick animal inside it, but that I can’t explain
where we are going, or why, just he needs to trust
me, beyond all his mewling (we pass a fish truck
on Penn Avenue in sunlight) – trust me: where
we are going will end your suffering.
(originally published in Kalopsia Lit, Spring 2022)
This Old Table Means So Much to You
Ceiling leaks on mahogany plate–
nowhere for rain. The cat self-
cleans beside treble clef legs.
Roomba learns the floor’s secrets.
Purple grape stems. Vent dust
from the void. I left you a voicemail
on a no outlet road. I read a few pages
tonight. Shower steam dissipates
slowly into starlight.
(originally published in Bindweed Magazine, Summer 2021)
Catcall / Catastrophe
So you made a carrot soufflé–
no one cares about the mush
orange and earthy you made
in the oven. That shit is under
control. Look instead at Joshua
trees burning down the desert
runway. That’s a catwalk. A
catcall to the Earth from
your rolled-down pickup
truck window. See
how hot they are? It’s
like those cruel videos
where the cat’s caretaker
places a cucumber
behind the off-guard animal,
and people laugh
as the creature flees in
surprise terror.
These videos were big
for a summer. This
slideshow of tiny
cruelties– it’s harder
to find new spaces
to hide.
(originally published in G*MOB, Spring 2022)
To Sara (From DQ)
Wouldn’t call myself wild. Wouldn’t last a day–
before you, another home I thought’d be forever.
Some call my eyes crystal but I couldn’t predict
a future outside the shelter. I was scared yet still
nomadic to a fault– too eager to attach, I now
purr from afar– me, on a pillow on the carpet,
you, sipping coffee on the couch– just to say
I see you, I want to go there, just not yet.
I will never detail my past, its unimaginable
happenings that make me want to spill Cabernet
glasses, scatter shards of red on tile. I’m learning
to be comfortable in my surroundings, to love
and welcome love by others in this space. I leap
atop the cabinets to walk into your world, observe.
And at night I wait for you to lay in bed when,
at last, I can rest on your chest, close my eyes,
and be.
(originally published in The Mark Literary Review, Spring 2020)
When I Say I Love All Animals I Mean From Inside
Kingsford
drinks from
furry pond
beside the catmansion
and I am ashamed–
little vestibule of living
as are we all this
needy, then,
these walls
the fringe
of
what we say is
is
what
we shoo away
(originally published in The Headlight Review, Spring 2020)
In Another Life I Am Content Enough
What simulation’s numb you ask
if I want children this time
definitive we boil Kraft mac
and cheese. I toss our meager sweet
potatoes in oil and ramble about financial
self-worth the oven nearly at four hundred
degrees. I can’t stop petting your shoulder
the ashy cat roams in the loam of our love
our newly swept hardwood the house
our home for now so limited already
steam from the inside a pressure
cooker of different timelines. What river
these converging lives to seek meaning
in the biological job postings some of us
are born to call. My dad was sixty-one
when I was born my grandfather clock
ticks nonexistent. We have gorged in all
our broken cabinets to rustle the blue
plastic grocery bag pile. I can’t stand
to live another day preoccupied.
(originally published in Flights, Summer 2021)
We Live With Animals
there is a limited amount
of space on the futon
to absorb sun because it is
another day in (x) of them
they are staring as I say this
in my pantsless existence
with feet pressed together
on sweaty carpet
(originally published in Raw Dog Press, Spring 2022)
I Drank Yesterday; Your Socks Had Cats on Them
I drank yesterday; your socks had cats on them. I’m sorry. I wasn’t strong.
The white and pink and soft. Faces I see them everywhere and they meow
requiems of froth. Ciders on the couch our jeans touching. I get to the point
of confusion but don’t get the point of being confused. I am there. Brainfog
sober room drowning in doused apple and loud television football. Green
green fields. I lived alone in pastures for most of my sadness now it sinks
conjoined. Allow me the pleasure please allow me come home to the bog.
(originally published in Philosophical Idiot, Spring 2019)
Cat Person
You ask me to watch Lollipop while you vacation
in Nantucket without paying me even though this is a definite
inconvenience but I oblige and then you text demanding
picture updates a few hours after I say I’ll send one
when I’m there. You ask for news before I arrive
like hanging out with your cat is compensation.
Look, I swear I’m a cat
person. I am. What
I’m saying is I may be adaptable
but Lollipop is not. Today I stop
by to swing scooped poop in a plastic bag
around the house and dump a confetti of
special urinary chickenmix into a small bowl
and there are flies all over the house from the
first night of catsitting because when I arrived
Lollipop was nowhere and maybe I left
the door open when I searched outside, shaking
a bag of treats everywhere, only to find the cat
inside the bedframe, hangin’ under mattress
in the lingerie drawer– when found, Lollipop
sprints into a shoe closet because she is not
a person-cat, and oh my god look at you on that rug
Lolli wants a belly rub yes you do ah god damn it
fucking fine.
(originally published in Plainsongs, Summer 2019)