The thing is,
I have paws the size of frying pans.
When I lived in Paris, and frequented the local cafes,
I often found myself stopped, mid-poem,
Overcome with an electric, instinctual desire
To pounce upon the odd slow waiter
And devour him.
Service became even worse.
Gendarmes questioned me, but carefully,
From behind large heavy wooden desks.
Tired of this treatment,
And filled with a terrible ennui,
I went home to my garret, threw away my dainty white gloves,
Put on my crimson scarf and went to buy a train ticket.
How was I to know that you would be there, at the station?
You always had small, strong hands,
And a way of leaving me as undone as a dropped parfait.
Porters and passengers smiled in passing
To see us, meant for each other, in transit, in love.
There is nothing else, no study in oils,
No natural scene,
More heart-catching than you, becoming naked in a slant of sun.
There is no fountain,
No creamy frosted trifle being passed on a plate,
As familiar with the feeling of eager surrender-in-motion as I was,
The thing is,
Even under the fingertip touch of such a bold and female knight as you,
I could not keep the muscles under my fur from waking;
I could not sheath my claws,
Nor deny my nature forever.
I hadn't meant to kill the landlord,
But he knocked on our rented cottage door just as you were at my throat
The way I loved for you to be,
And before I knew it,
He was shreds and bones.
Now, I live high in the steep rocks, where no trees grow.
The snow is my cape;
My heart hides deep, beating slow.
My days are long periods of remembering and regret,
A little writing,
And occasional furious bursts of blood and feast.
Please forgive me, Darling,
For not being able to sustain paradise.
It was there,
In your body,
In your deep-water eyes,
And in the things you said, that stay with me still.
Isolation is my natural way. I've made peace with it,
But I never forget you, because
Even those alone
for Flipside's word list 10, Hannah's Transforming Fridays #2, and Real Toads Open Link Monday