2/21/04
she would stumble into the apartment,
tipsy but not drunk.
Her nutmeg-colored cat would
caress her ankles;
her suede shoes would
shiver off her feet
in a motion of blind habit.
Looking down at shirt,
she would blot out its stains,
sipping on tepid coffee,
and think about love.
It didn't exist as a whole;
she'd known this from her youth.
She'd learned in time to weed out
weaker words from her vocabulary,
ones whose power had diluted over time,
and she'd replaced "love" with
"lust" and "friend" and "need and
even "good companion," lately.
She could articulately categorize
the symptoms she felt within her.
She was doctor of her own body,
knew its signals and fallacies,
could decipher psychology and flaws.
Sipping coffee in the kitchen,
she could mentally
divide her tired word.
As she prodded the cat
with her nyloned toes,
she'd think of hands running on the
silken softness of stockings
and of the ones who'd stay the next day,
reading political news and
smoking cigarettes in her leather chair
and of the ones she still would call
on nights she was alone, needed ears
and someone else to bounce words back.
And at times she pressed her forehead
sweaty on the icy window,
watching from six floors up
the girls and men leaving bars
to pursue the several segments
she could quite articulate.
The nutmeg cat would slink
between her anklebones,
lean its head against her calf,
mewl its heart at her,
and as she gathered it gently in her arms
and carried it to sleep,
she told herself she was wise
so wise
to not believe in love.
