I met a cat
a few weeks ago
black and white
on the city sidewalk
collarless in
the deserted evening.
I stopped
yards away,
no chasing
crouched down
stretched my hand out
she hesitated
I smiled
𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘩 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦
she stepped cautiously to me
I stroked her back
scratched between black
ears and then
she went her way
and I went mine
and only one of us looked back.

i like stories of
fiercely feral girls
who tear from the womb
short-tempered and clench-******
bawling tantrums with red faces
hungry like black holes
starving to scratch, and bite, and scream
to shake the world for not being their own
who have not yet been carved
hollow of their rage
for a lady
does not
roar

i like stories
of girls who will never
be tamed
never give up their
fire because it hurts
who fight unto their final breath
and spit into the face of death

(girls
who are stronger than me).

May the gods drink deep your blood
and may the crimson please their gaze
and may the iron scent whet their lust
that the taste may sate it
for you are my greatest offering.

in time
the lens
turns large and flexes
small
and the colors of hands
the shapes of days
stains
the wallowing stream
the hanging chord
for god is change is time
is infinite is ends
is frozen is stagnation
is a self
a sculpture in ice
glittering melting
a tale the same
in every telling
till
gone.

not much more
than a metaphor
as a butterfly flap
is a windstorm.

she wanted
little-girl-wanted
to be loved
without barbs
so much
that when she snatched them up from their cage
she squeezed the life out of them.

she tried to be gentle
smoothed silken wriggling bodies
with light fingers, soft words
but they trembled at her touch
thrashed escape from her grasping hands
even as they dozed in her brother’s palms
so again and again she caught them
by the tails
with sudden fists
round rushing ribs
from huddled corners, piled dens
and held them tighter and tighter to her chest
wishing more than anything they
could be enough to fill her fractured lungs
as if love can be pressed from hearts
like wine from grapes
as if she could drink
without tasting poison

they died young
from her
venomous heart

she buried them under
the loveliest stones she could find.

I
it hisses, turning dessiccation
dust to wet dirt
the water’s meniscus edge conquers
gorges and gaps of pitted paved path
mortar dips between cobblestones
capillary rivulets
generals charging ahead
their advancing lines
rallied for battle
against dry death

II
the sky pours out the ocean
and drowns the bridges that connect us