the day my aunt told me a story about her 7 lb. cat who dragged a 12 lb. turkey to the other room and growled until she ate it clean

I was petting a cat who had once bitten me

with the hand that still bore—

a mark so faint a lover wouldn’t see it—

only me, who remembers the impact.

I was petting that now-purring cat

with that same hand when you answered

the phone. Hurt fades as we encounter

kindness. The feral cat who once bit—

a huge monster then—

now rests on my lap months later.

Enough treats, enough food, enough kind words

can soften even claws.

It’s the same thing that got me

to call you—

and you to answer,

“Happy Julie’s birthday.”

Your dead sister. My dead mom.

I had forgotten.

It’s that same thing

which lets us talk about anything but my mother—

about all the cats you’ve tamed,

the ones I’ve just started.

We agree:

no matter the time,

no matter how sweet,

inside, always—

a bit of the feral remains.

Maybe, inside me, that wild speck,

that lone cell—probably a neuron,

maybe muscle—

just days ago

saw you as looming black winds,

ready to sweep me into darkness.

Feeble like a child—

a child whose whole world,

every emotion,

was implanted by your jealous sister,

my dead mother.

How I was fearful of the worst.

What exactly, I couldn’t say.

Yet today, you seem the mother

I wish I had.

The woman I wish to become.

My mother was right

to be your jealous sister.

But now I know—

she was my jealous mother as well.

We—two feral cats

she could never fully tame.

This is it. This is the Poem.

I often want to write a poem—

a poem you’ll read and fall in love with me.

Each time I begin: This is it. This is the one.

But then I falter.

Because somewhere out there,

you are alive—

living a life I know nothing about.

So what can I offer but wishes?

And if we meet someday,

what is this poem then?

A bundle of dreams you never asked for,

an expectation I lassoed

around your neck

before I even knew your name?

I wouldn’t want that.

But to stay vague feels dishonest, too.

I’m full of visions I can’t help but hope are true.

And if you turned out just as I pictured—

wouldn’t you feel it, too?

So please, see this for what it is:

I imagine you with beautiful feet, tiny toes,

soft soles like the pads of your hands—

hands that cradle kittens,

that twist your shirt when you’re anxious.

Your eyes shine—

wet with sorrow and joy.

You laugh easily.

We watch dumb videos—

animals farting, hours lost in laughter.

You're a steady driver,

so I can daydream out the window.

You love when I’m dirty—literally—

smudged with soil from the garden.

I press a dirt-covered finger to your cheek;

you pull it into your mouth,

and we talk about the benefits

of soil microbes.

You care for your body—

not to be hot (though you are),

but as an act of love:

to stay strong, rooted,

to be well—for us.

Yes, us. We are obsessed with us.

Matching pajamas, phone cases with our faces,

“I’m with stupid” shirts, Christmas photos,

coordinated outfits, tagged in every post—

our Instagrams co-fan accounts.

You like the way I talk fast,

ramble, wander—

my thoughts spilling in every direction.

You let me excavate you,

delight in every poem,

even the messy ones.

My muse—

you see yourself in every line.

You are like dark brown sugar:

sweet, complex, rich.

You’ll love that I taste every note.

And still, it’s never enough—

never enough time,

enough days

to know you completely.

You bloom like a zinnia:

at first, a bold red blossom—

but tucked inside,

a ring of yellow stars

I only notice

when I stay long enough

to look closely.

So please—

let this be the one you read,

and fall in love.

I cannot try to live
or write
for a tomorrow
that may never come.

hoosier sweet tea

When I first got here,

my voice seemed distinctive,

my word choice strange,

my pronunciation off.

Now, my voice has softened—

like cherry-lightning clouds

before another hot, rainy storm.

I hear it when I say:

“How are you, honey?

I missed you last night,”

to the outdoor cats I feed

but don’t touch.

And now—

suddenly—I say y’all.

And yesterday, I almost said

reckon

  and fixin’,

as in: You reckon he’s fixin’ to eat?

Which means,

Do you think he’s getting ready to eat?

Somehow,

I’m a little too Yankee for the South,

a bit too Southern for the North.

Please—

save a place for me.

What a metaphor—coming from an overweight woman, nearly forty, still delusional that one day she’ll become a volunteer firefighter.

I watched a woman

throw her baby

out the second-story window

of a burning building—

into the arms of strangers below.

And you know,

when she saw him land 

safely in those arms,

she was grateful.

Even if she died,

he would live.

I cried at this video I saw—

not for the woman or the baby,

but selfishly for myself,

who has never known a love

where I'd choose their life over mine,

just the kind where they'd choose mine

over theirs.

If I were a decent person,

I’d cry for all the lovers

who dropped me

into the safety

over the years—

and the ones I've yet to meet,

already practicing

their sweet release of me

before they turn to the flames.

What am I even trying to say?

The news anchor said:

Moments later, the mother climbed down

a sheet tied to a bedpost

and fell into the same strangers’ arms.

She reunited with her baby

before the firetruck even arrived.

too soon?

It was the day after I accidentally killed a mockingbird—

(that’s not a metaphor, that’s a fact)

when we saw another mockingbird in the yard.

Up until this point, we’d openly talked

about the mate or eggs or chicks waiting

for the bird I killed.

But now we were face to face,

and it was hopping around too close,

looking around too intently,

calling out in every direction.

Part of me, a part I’ve always had,

wanted to crack a joke

about Harper Lee and Scout and Boo Radley.

Get it? To Kill a Mockingbird.

It’s like I killed an innocent man.

For you, this joke will always be “too soon”

’cause it’s about a hurt animal.

But if I did, you’d go somber:

“I've met men like that. There’s no book

that could explain it.”

And I would be pulled in,

like a child still awake, hearing

a new bedtime story—one I’ve never heard—

one you’ve been holding back.

But I stay silent. Don’t even mention

that it’s a mockingbird. You do.

Then ask me to look up

if they mate for life.

The internet says they can have

multiple males to a female—and vice versa.

The ol’ switcheroo.

You say, “Well it was 'till death

for one of them.”

You are satisfied with this answer.

I sense the possibility of a harem nest

in the trees outside the yard gives you peace.

You believe he isn't alone. Not really 

I don’t read aloud

that while they don’t mate for life,

they do sometimes stay monogamous

for a long time. Not life,

But a long time.

So I still watch him,

hopping around too close,

looking around too intently,

calling out in every direction—

like he is looking for someone.

As you've moved on.

rookie year / bird season

---

You’d think this was my rookie year

The way I’m pulled into the games—

Like children’s games, where the rules

Never stay the same. I say,

“That’s not allowed.” But you stand square,

“Uh huh! I can do that now.”

This latest round has me praying

For the bench. Pull me from the game.

I’m tired. Sloppy passing. Missed shots.

Stumbling over my own feet.

Fouling myself.

It’s masturbation. I’m fucking myself—

Fucking myself over.

Me: d’objet du jour.

You: giggling audience,

Not even watching,

On your phone,

Taking a selfie.

#GoTeam.

This happens every quarter.

Till the buzzer sounds.

---

Brace yourself—this isn’t just a metaphor anymore.

Yesterday a bird died. I killed it.

I covered a blueberry bush with a net—

I followed the internet’s advice—

She went for a berry. For herself.

Her family. A sweet little treat.

A jeweled lie dressed as fruit.

Then tangled up. Died right there.

Not my intent, but the result.

How my husband and I cried

When he said, “Some mockingbird

Has lost its mate. Some eggs have lost

A mommy.” That is like you:

Careless attention,

Spread like wildflower seeds—

And me,

A hungry bird,

More reckless. More stupid.

Falling into it.

The only victims?

The ones abandoned in the nest.

The bird. Me. You.

Even the net—

strung to help, now in the trash

with a dead bird.

This game we made:

Everybody loses.

We are all rookies this year.

---

when the pity party's over

The balloons deflated,

cake half-eaten,

it's time for you to go back home.

You must be the seasoning of your life—

and this salty shit has got to go.

Wouldn't you

rather be a threat than a victim?