I ask when kissing
our cat does this
make you jealous?
Not because it is
my mission. Today
marks shedding
season the first
day of spring.
Dry lips coated
with fur because
winter was long
and tomorrow
we will be new.
(originally published in DoubleSpeak Magazine, Summer 2023)
pet
To Sara (From Kermit)
This world you teach me is velvet
mice in your palm, on the carpet,
in my teeth, repeat. And the silver
crinkle ball that shines purple in sun
light that I cannot stop batting across
the floor. I sometimes push it into
that unreachable darkness underneath
the couch downstairs. DQ told me there
once was a cat who left and never
returned, and she thinks about him
constantly, expecting him each entrance
of outside light, and I tell her no, there’s only
me and you, and I run around the house,
seeking his faint traces. And she tells me of days–
long, unimaginable days– when no one is around
and you just have to bide your time and wait.
It seems so lonely. I run to her and
she screams and retreats into the Cavern of
Bags. I follow her in too deep. Please
tell me you will always be around.
I need someone here to complete
such important work, this
drive inside that bursts and blooms
its way across the corners
of these rooms I’m learning,
this love I newly navigate far
from small, stuffed cages
I used to think
was the world
until I met the space
within your affection,
a bond of greater
boundlessness.
(originally published in Unlikely Stories Mark V, Winter 2023)
A Deep Exhaustion
I have a deep exhaustion
when an animal puts his head
on my lap I fall
ask anyone and they will say the weekend
is gone too fast
you sleep through your dreams
the train whistles
the beating heart
of your partner next to you
asleep through the lost time you share
(originally published in Pirene’s Fountain, Summer 2024)
Google Home Quarantine
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)
To Kailee (From Irie)
I know the risks when I make the journey–
after running through shadows beneath dark
desk, I must evade the heavy stomping
of giants who do not see me and black
wheels that zag back and forth on
the bottom of a bony leather rolling
chair. And if I can get past that,
there’s the barren carpet desert,
a field of dust kicking up exhaust
to sneeze. I huff and puff past junk
I’m told is poison yet I always want
to eat– crumbs from a swan
sandwich, push pins, script meat.
And at the edge of the expanse I am
out of breath with miles to go–
a table ten towers tall to run under.
I close my eyes and sprint until
the window by where you sit
and I tap you on the shoe.
After you call my name
I say that’s me! then
your palms become a
cradle lifting me to lap
where the world is warm
honey sunshine.
After hours and hours
to rest and recover–
you glide me over
towers, the dust field,
the rolling chair, the stomping
shoes, the shadows, like these
obstacles were nothing when
you place me back in my blanket.
For you, bringing me home
is the easiest thing in the world.
(originally published in Backchannels Journal, Spring 2023)
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)
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)
To Mandy (from Cece)
When in view I know I launch like a rocket toward you
but you are my favorite scent in the universe
I watch stars when sprinting through open fields
my neck beaming orange from my electric collar
you have given me many such gifts
but nothing can replicate your hand on my fur
you know I don’t need to shake my butt when I walk
I’m only playing but it is funny when you mimic my moves
& we have so many years & so few
and every day is so new I can’t bear to learn
the name of another dog or tree because everything is beautiful
& holy & profound in the way you let me roam free the times
I only need to go outside to pee & look, everything’s so gorgeous
I can’t bear to sit still & yet will return to you when you call my name
(originally published in Perspectives Magazine, Spring 2017)
To Paige (From Jack)
no one else spell w – a –
l – k jus ta invigarate
our senses & tendons
jus me & u, ta be outside
& sniff da wine in roses, .
when ya dance arms a whirlwind i dont speak
cuz i kno a days come we both dancin
& howlin, listen da moon whisprin secrets
& i dont want ya palms leave my full belly
da way da sun snatch ya gone in mornins.
dont want u to wake : it mean some
time u stay , other time da wooden gate
outside squeak & take u where my nose
cant find u, , sometime fa days . i chew
on bones u gave til my tongue become
a skeleton thirstin . , i wait fa blue sky
ta stop ringin da sun , when da day turn
gray , when u somehow materalize ..
dats when i have u : darkness : u sleepin
on ya bed a bleach & purple catmint .
i pray da bright awful requiem dont
replay– when u rise i wonder if
today u turn ta harmony , , or void
& how long . but
wid u beside me ,
no need ta wonder .–
u,, protected , & me ,
nose fulla ya petals ,
da sauvignon in roses .
(originally published in Sediments Literary-Arts Journal, Autumn 2016)
Jack
This dog has seen you paint red the walls
and its color fade from sheetrock.
Rest. You walk butterfly wings,
each step a budding stem.
You and Jack love similarly, a dance
of tongue-and-stomp. Long-nailed
paws clomp heartbeats to the closed
door, painted white– a desire panting
for who is on the other side– and he waits,
as you have, on so many nights.
(originally published in Heartbeat, Issue 2)