She’s gotta move; she’s gotta get out;
she’s gotta find a new place.
A cat can’t scream, “I can’t shove my head any further up my ass.” Not in English, and it’s better off for it. These words we humans curl color the Dutch shovel gray glow of the full moon burnt umber; pendulously bleeding meaning from thought, and sending harsh echos flying overhead.
The pearl-eyed woman at the micro-grocery under the overpass tells me she’s learning to think outside her box of fleshy, interstitial curves. But she’s always dampened by the memory of toothpick words from the hard mouths of fancy car drivers. This woman, dressed in full metal-plate apron, collects small-talk shrapnel and compresses it slowly into diamonds.
Outside her box, I’m thinking lively luck too: it’s the swirl of a Slushie. You never fully drink its spinning twisting cosmos breaking depths dry. And the cats scream, “We can’t shove our heads any further up, up, up. All the men have angry, scruffy shadowed faces.
In winter, I always lie with my knees drawn up; words curling up the sky. Women of false fathers, ignorers all, draw their knees around older men. It’s their inwardly curved form, outwardly projected into every dimension until they break the specter of unfulfilled praise.