and a knife in the other,
the morning you called down a coffee ground curse
in my kitchen, off the bedroom, in blackberry June.
Mousers know, as crows do,
that an unmade bed in the afternoon
is sweet green thick as an ivy vine,
a tangle of moon drawn out before the sun is even gone.
You knew, standing there with your summer robe open,
your eyes dreamy-closed,
and the grapefruit in your hand,
what you could do to me,
and how to kitty the solstice whichever way you chose.
Now, it is always night, always summer,
and blackbirds do your bidding at every blue hour;
I can kiss someone else until my lips are bruised,
but the pot is cold, the kitchen is empty,
and the robe hangs itself for trying, but
bring you back
no matter that I promise it Chanel and shibboleth,
pretty as a calico cat.
Izy at Real Toads says, write about a curse, so I have.
Fun fact: calico cats are nearly always female.