Is it sex, or war
when cats convene
under the house,
keening moans & wails,
almost words
in the guttural
mumbles. Who knows those
subtle signs of demarcation,
the word for
territory in an
indecipherable language?
Imagine them
in a Hopper canvas—
how far apart they would sit,
how much counter space between
them for comfort? Imagine
the muted yellow distance
between walls of a cheap suite,
once pastel, now grimy
with cigarette smoke
& diesel soot. Imagine staring
out of that window to a landscape beyond
the frame, tin promises in your eyes,
your partner, distant in the
living room’s stuffed chair, newspaper
blocking the face
behind the neat columns
of ink & rotogravure.
Imagine the yowl
from your own throat confined
by the hard wooden edges.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
