i have a confession.
i spoon with my cat and
pretend she is not a cat–
i love her so.
she is the perfect size
for my mind’s cruel games.
she is the same warm
of my little brothers and sisters
when they slept like her beside me–
back against chest/head beneath chin
i breathe her in, dangerous allergens
and all. she makes me sick, takes away
my breath, weakens my lungs and
sends me to the hospital for days at a time.
my doctor says you might
want to get rid of those cats,
like they are trash to be thrown to the curb,
like if i had a baby and
it came out twisted and hurt or
missing parts of its mind
it would be alright to find it
too much an inconvenience–
throw it away, wait for another one
to come along stronger, healthy,
all smiles–the prescribed happy ending…
i’ve never much cared for what’s easy.
i don’t know how to want what’s best.
logic and me don’t quite see eye to eye
which probably explains my crying
in an elevator–watching mothers do their job
well is the best kind of sad movie. the scene
closes with the perfect fin, leaves me
dissatisfied and wanting more, heart
swells to burst and thoughts on another plane
from the place that holds my body
tickticktocking and hickory-dickory-docking
to someone who isn’t there to hear.