In my last dream before waking
I meet a version of myself
from an alternate universe.
We greet each other cautiously.
There’s a slight class difference:
while I flipped burgers at the diner
my alter-ego went to graduate school
& now teaches cultural studies
at the university. He takes me back
to his apartment, which he shares
with two housemates & a dozen cats.
I watch in wonder as
he gives a good-night kiss
to a woman black as coffee.
I gave up poetry years ago, he says.
He asks what I’ve done
Jot or tittle?
Eye or eye-drop?
Hole or window?
Explain.
Make yourself
uncomfortable.
What is it?
How many legs does it have?
Is it woody or chitinous?
You are a cat.
No, not you—
you are nothing like a cat!
Help us find the cat.
What would you tell time?
What would you read to books?
Invent a ceremony for
Prawns or shrimp? The cat likes them
either way. We find him on the counter
with a large piece of red onion
& a lettuce leaf in his mouth, a sudden
fan of salads. The cat is a true eccentric
& quite sure he is a dog, while
the dog of course thinks she is
a human. And we humans are the most
curious of all: we believe
we are what we eat, though it’s seldom
that we’re present for the eating.
If we eat a salad, we’re already looking
forward to the dessert. Omnivores,
dwellers in the benthic zone, we have
an unusual tolerance for toxins.
Our strongest muscles pull us rapidly
In that chilly apartment
the cat found the warmest spot
on top of the refrigerator
the refrigerator would cycle off
with a violent shiver
the cat’s tail would twitch
in the silence that followed
we would lower our voices
& move closer together
the walls were thin as takeout menus
the ceiling had a stain
in the shape of Antarctica
we each had bruises
on our hips from
the other’s hipbones.
I bought Henry the Fourth dinner,
but my expectation being too great,
it did not please him.
I drank a pot or two and parted.
A cat with one eye
was going my way.
“Strange fellow, tell me,
how is the king now?”
Cat purrs on the floor
Doggo licks his lips
Onyx and Midnight; my boys
They say my cat is fat right to her face,
Maybe she's fat because you bring her down until she feels anything but skinny.
Pudding has told us
He used to live in a warm world where his fur would reflect the sun's heat
That's why it's so bright and stands out.
He tells us that earth is too cold
So he likes snuggling up on warm things
Today he crawled into the hot water heater and got stuck
He really
Really
Really
Doesn't like water.
The upstairs flat has been rented by an order of
monks, who get up at 4 in the morning and chant. I'd
almost rather the crazy woman with the TV set that ate
cats was still there, but she got married and moved
to the suburbs.
The monks have purchased the great organ from the
Fox Theatre, but none of them can play it. The crazy
woman had an accordion, and of course when she fed a
cat to the TV the noise was terrific, but I'm dreading
the day they get someone into the order who can play
the organ.
The man downstairs drinks. He hasn't noticed the
monks yet, but some morning when he's coming home from
the bars he'll see the black-hooded figures filing out
of the upstairs flat on their way to St. Peter and
there is GRASS on the PAMPA and there is OIL
in the CRANKCASE. Our CAT purrs under her FUR
as if the CALENDAR would NEVER cease. I have ACCESS
to the PERSONAL, it is the AIR I TAKE, through WHICH
my two ARMS WAVE. Farther AWAY, FACES, armies of WORDS,
DIM fact and fancy. Bacon, an OLD june,
MEMORY DISQUALIFIES itself. Though it may EMERGE
as a DROP of longing on my TONGUE. From this
LIVING AXIS, I am ABLE to SPEAK without DYING.
When thin-strewn memory I look through,
I see most clearly poor Miss Loo,
Her tabby cat, her cage of birds,
Her nose, her hair--her muffled words,
And how she'd open her green eyes,
As if in some immense surprise,
Whenever as we sat at tea
She made some small remark to me.
It's always drowsy summer when
From out the past she comes again;
The westering sunshine in a pool
Floats in her parlour still and cool;
While the slim bird its lean wires shakes,
As into piercing song it breaks;
Till Peter's pale-green eyes ajar
Dream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar.
(Unready)
Close-folded fern ...
So stiff; so coldly self-sustained:
But summer passes.
(Motherhood)
Puss watches the world,
Troubled: but knows she is linked
To a miracle.
(Home)
Empty room; fire dies;
Moon shines in; chairs and tables converse;
Books croon songs.
(Awakening)
Gray old tree
Has breasted winter storms; but is vaguely
Worried by March.