cat whisker love

i love the way love lingers on the edges of white cat whiskers
as if to say, catch me. catch all of me. no you can’t. fuck off.
and that, the child to its mother, is all of everything. and that, the mother
to its child is traitorous, barbarous, and a bit uncomfortable.
find me, find me, you can’t? well, shit.
and that’s a shame. when do i become what i’ve become
when i teach a child to not become what i’ve become.
when does the deviancy begin? and does it deviate
and shake itself thin of every hard boiled, spotted grain
installed or preinstalled: which one is it? when do i become it?
am i it? am i the whiskers budging already?
or: am i the love that lingers on flighty, fickle things.
i wager i am the cat ears twitching, moving off sides & behind
to where the music is playing, to where the melody of ruffled papers
becomes an avalanche of welcomes. find me, find me, i beg you to come find me.
then gone, abandoned! tail straight, pupils wide, ears up, and
nothing. nothing. for what? nothing. absence. void. gone.
and that, the child to its mother, is all of everything. and that, the mother
to its child is a sad, pathetic waste.

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