The cat found it’s way back to my chest.
How it climbed out of the stars and
dug its claws in again,
I don’t know.
I’m tired of the big empty hope.
Does it always look so much
like the last time?
I have heard the prophecies
and remember the promises.
Exposed brick in every room,
a mouse in the kitchen each night.
Everything that I touch is changed.
I don’t know if it’s me or the moon.
It hardly hurts anymore when it claws me,
my skin sympathetic to fear.
Everything starts tomorrow again.
The dishwasher, the work day,
the possibility that nothing will happen.
The city is trying to push me out
like a splinter.
I don’t want to be anywhere else.
I keep trying to get back to my family,
but I never pick up when they call.
Is the crescendo of miracle
always silenced by death,
or does eternity echo back when
My response to rejection
I am learning this now,
It might have been anything.
I tell myself that I am beautiful
as a shadow,
and lift scissors to the hair
my mother loves.
This feels so much like last time.
Years of growing at my feet,
in the sink,
on the black marble floor near the bath mat.
Something beautiful grows out of what has changed.
The spilt milk of the moon
makes my chest ache.