Elaine

I adopted a male black cat

named Elaine. I tried

calling him: Eli, Allen,

Elliot, Lane, but he would not

respond. Elaine didn’t meow,

he yowled like a woman on a soap opera,

like an underpaid porn star, like my mother

when she gets joint pain. But

his fur was long, and black,

and soft, and when the points of his spine

poked my thigh, I could remember the cheekbones

I used to trace with my thumb and hold

tightly against my chest

Not Even a Sock

I used to find them

everywhere - stuck to my

sweaters, buried in shoes, tucked in-

between the couch cushions,stuffed

under the welcome mat, crisping

on the furnace, by the side

of the bed, folded into

the sheets, dripping and hanging

from the shower rod, under the cat, orphans

in piles after laundry day. Then I woke up

one day and they were all gone. Not them alone,

but the mountain of shoes, the curtain

of scarves, the scattered lost treasures

of bobby pins, even the red and green

SantaClaws kitty-cat oven mitts kept

in the very back of the the cupboard

above the fridge, protected from grease.

In their place was a long, multi-paged note

that ended all the same.

Page Pause

While reading, the story because you and you are only your inner echoing words off a page.

Page Pause

In that moment when you put down your book

and rub your hands over your face

it’s not because you’re tired

or done reading

it is because in that moment

you are the book and the pages

are your limbs and the words

are you heartbeats

and all the chapters

are you children

and in that moment

you want to breath

and rub your face

and try to be human

and find your world again