brings order where there was none.
Let's not talk about the walnut shell of my womb,
empty birthplace of dust.
Let's talk about my cat child, proud with powers, handy with struts.
Now, listen--
I have forgotten all about you.
I've heard that I was in love once, but who knows?
Show me the evidence; I'll yawn elaborately, and my cat child will agree
that such stuff is dull in the extreme.
Dead fish, on the other hand, become more riveting every minute.
You would not have understood my cat child.
At least, that's my foggy instinct about it.
You would have objected to the damage, the piss and the fleas.
The rumor is, cats were royal once,
and I need the reflected glory and the chance to sleep during the day.
Right now, my cat child is away.
She is hungry for mice, songbirds, or someone's leg.
Me, I don't eat anymore, can't recall why I ever did--
I remember nothing, value nothing, aspire to nothing.
But once,
The feel of my mouth closing gently over the curve of your soft lower lip
seemed such an urgent thing,
like warm waves for mermaids,
a place I would do anything to get to.
Yes once,
the sight of your dark hair sent warm honey over my heart,
my belly,
my sex,
and everywhere, my love, from my skin to the stars.
Now, though,
I have forgotten all that.
What were we talking about? I have no idea.
Now there is only the glare of afternoon
and the magnificence of my cat child who has given me nine lives--
none of them worth a damn,
all as dead in the mouth as a finch with a broken neck.
_______
Ha ha ha. This is hilarious; I love it. It's super sexy too.
ReplyDeleteThese are my faves:
"My cat child
brings order where there was none."
"Let's talk about my cat child, proud with powers, handy with struts."
"Show me the evidence; I'll yawn elaborately, and my cat child will agree
that such stuff is dull in the extreme."
"You would have objected to the damage, the piss and the fleas."
This badass stanza:
"Right now, my cat child is away.
She is hungry for mice, songbirds, or someone's leg.
Me, I don't eat anymore, can't recall why I ever did--
I remember nothing, value nothing, aspire to nothing."
"The feel of my mouth closing gently over the curve of your soft lower lip
seemed such an urgent thing,
like warm waves for mermaids,
a place I would do anything to get to."
"the sight of your dark hair sent warm honey over my heart,
my belly,
my sex"
"all as dead in the mouth as a finch with a broken neck"
I like the way you keep trying to say you don't love her and have forgotten all about her, but obviously you haven't. Very effective, engaging poetry.
"recalculating" ... What a great label.
Oh, this one makes me sad. If only we could forget, it would be easier. A stirring write, my friend. Is that cute little you in the photo?
ReplyDeleteShay--The last line is so brilliant, but then, so is the rest of the friggin' poem.
ReplyDeletea good, sad one, shay.
ReplyDeleteMy cat child
ReplyDeletebrings order where there was none.
Let's not talk about the walnut shell of my womb,
empty birthplace of dust.
Let's talk about my cat child, proud with powers, handy with struts.
The rumor is, cats were royal once,
and I need the reflected glory and the chance to sleep during the day.
Me, I don't eat anymore, can't recall why I ever did--
I remember nothing, value nothing, aspire to nothing.
Yes once,
the sight of your dark hair sent warm honey over my heart,
my belly,
my sex,
and everywhere, my love, from my skin to the stars.
all as dead in the mouth as a finch with a broken neck.
The poem I made from the cloudia parts of your poem. No disrespect intended. Self revelations feared and invited.
The places where we intersect?
Lovely cold here. . . . . freeze warning....pink November dusk...geese
aloha dearie
MOL.. Me think me goes for someone's leg too =^x^=
ReplyDeleteThis is one that would reward a lot more readings and ponderings than I can give it now--it has layers in between layers of metaphor, perversity, darkness that moves and light that glimmers dimly on dead water--where do our emotions go when we have no further use for them--do they haunt us like ghosts or become our domesticated familiars/companions, imbued with every animal quality but furred with our own indifference--I think it would make for a nasty biting thing indeed. Age brings bitterness that is finally relieved by boredom with even that. Just too tiring--but the loss of feeling itself is a deeper grief that can't ever be mourned enough. Or so I read. Just excellent, Shay.
ReplyDeleteSome losses leave us like this, no? You put it into words like you do in a no less than amazing poem.
ReplyDeleteThe is brilliant in the extreme. From the driest dust to that glorious stanza of warm honey. Wow.
ReplyDeleteThis is gorgeous, Shay.
ReplyDeleteYou captured all the languid sensuality of all the pussycats I've ever taken care of. 'Tis perfect - nothing less.
ReplyDelete