December Verse

D E C E M B E R   V E R S E
 

Your cat is the love of my life, and I do not know where that leaves you. I stuffed a cardboard box with clothes you left by the door and made a home. She took to it like I welcomed the taste of your breath. That is to say: completely and all at once. Every last drop until it drowned me. There are twenty-one days left of the year and all I have to show for it are the circles you drew across my hollow stomach. And this fucking box. Is there anything I would not do for you? The lady cut my hair lopsided so I have spent the weekend taking kitchen scissors to it. Carving out my new face just in time for Christmas. It is overwhelming – the city has made me so many things. Dead or alive. My favourite black boots have half a heel each. The balcony floods when the sky wrings out and almost every pair of winter socks I own bear holes. Thus is the nature of things. I suppose. Looked one day,
out at the history of my life,
and thought that,
perhaps,
I am,
in fact,
a connoisseur of the broken.
Went hunting and found myself a new skin. Zipped my trembling body inside, poked eyeholes and a space for my thoughts. Walked on into the mortal night all the way to your door. It was cold then. You were warm. Next year, I think I shall be a real poet. Poetess? Lord no. At least I would like to try to be. If Patti Smith’s mother is right, I shall spend its opening moments pen in hand and waiting. They still have not called back. How many years should I devote to being lined up against a system that would prefer me absent, at the very least. If it does not snow on Christmas morning then truly what is the point? Your clothes smell good though and I enjoy the feeling of losing myself. Did not realise we had a view of the bridge. It took every tree stripping herself to the bone for me to learn that. Should be more grateful. I know what that feels like. I am sorry. Never thought I would love a cat. But then again, life is full of disbelief and I love many things I shouldn’t. Including the boots. One half each and I am still standing. I am still waiting. Dead or alive? I keep writing love poems by mistake and having nowhere to put them. My hands are already brimming so I started carrying them around in my feet. It is frightening to walk in circles across the plains of passion. Last year I tore down the walls so now I sway inside a glasshouse we blew despite ourselves. Draw the shades; fashion me a tree at autumn’s end. To the bone and shuddering. There is no right way to compose a poem, but I am almost certain this is not it. I am not that type of clever. The glass is cracked so pieces of sky fall in. I could acquire the glue to mend it but money is tight and the street is frozen stiff. Anyway, I like those flecks of paradise strewn across the carpet. And the undarned holes. Stuffed a cardboard box with leaves you wrapped around my chest, and made a home. Left it by the door and forgot to take out the recycling.

 HB | 2020