Mag 294

cat kitchen

In the impalpable grey

Of a night long fallen

I chase your ghosts

Undressing piously

By the refrigerator door.

The rooms are unmade,

Crippled in passage.

Stacks of pots

Swarm the kitchen

The aromas

No longer appetizing

I catch you there

Amongst panicked dingy tiles,

In your robe

Sniveling, sleepless,

Swooning on the kitchen floor.

There is no one to cook for,

No one to object or postpone.

You’ve pared your life down

Now there are only bones

And a disapproving cat

That is more coquette than conservator.

I am only a voice

Primordial, vacant

Tethered in an inexplicable nexus

Around your pale tremulous throat

I don’t want to kill you after all

But it may already be too late.