Aphrodite Giant (International Cat Show)

She’s more of a dog person, but it was her idea

to come to the cat show. Neither of us

had ever been to one. Her favorites

are the huge Maine coons, which are basically dogs anyways.

They frighten me a little, but so does she.

I pet her hairand listen to her purr,

knowing she could take a swipe at me at any time

as we walk up and down the convention center

between the rows of tables covered with cages and cat carriers,

some simple and some insanely elaborate,

plastered with glamor shots and awards ribbons 

and here and there a homemade sign announcing 

KITTENS 4 SALE

It’s been nine months since my friend’s cat disappeared.

The other one wasted away and a few months later

she had to be put down. Poor little bag of bones,

I loved that kitty. She hasn’t gotten another cat.

I fantasize about showing up to her house

with a new kitten in tow., the way a friend of mine did

years ago when my cat died. I hadn’t thought I was ready

but there she was, with this little orange ball of fluff

peering out of her coat.

Why do we keep getting attached to things

we know are going to leave us?

I am a scratching post, a litter box. 

My new companion and I stroll past the booths

with the pet photographer, the pet psychic, the vendors

selling feathers on sticks and felt bats. We laugh

at the ladies wrapped in head to toe leopard print,

at the girls wearing cat ears, at the guy in the shiny track suit

covered copper tigers. She picks out a carrot

stuffed with catnip

for my furry boy, so he won’t be too upset

that I cheated on him.

We watch the judges bestow the ratings,

baffled at why some cats are deemed more worthy

than others, the rules seem arbitrary and arcane.

I’m not going to grow attached to this person,

I tell myself. I am a cat.

Fickle, selfish, difficult to please.

And why not? Look at all these Ragdolls and Selkirk Rexes,

all these California Spangles and Aphrodite Giants.

They don’t need anyone, yet they are still lavished

with affection, groomed to within an inch of their lives,

worshipped like whiskered deities. 

Of course, who can tell if they’re happy?  They all look

slightly peeved. They all look like cats.

I glance over at her. 

I’m not going to fall for you, I think, and she smiles

and without meaning to or wanting to,

against my feline nature,

without giving it a single thought

I smile back.

Anniversary

How many words ago was it
how many periods, commas, ellipses
have passed since that original question mark?

How many teeth have been removed
from how many mouths since I first kissed you?
How many chainsaw accidents have their been
since we first collapsed like felled pines
into bed together?

We measure the years by the pound,
by the length and height and width
of our wall of empty beer cans,
by the depth of the peanut shells covering the floor
of the honky tonk where we used to take
country line dance lessons, back when we used to be
into that sort of thing

How will we celebrate our Sandpaper Jubilee, my love?
We'll take the day off to drive out to Hourglass Cove,
walk along the beach of golden glitter.
We'll stare out across the ocean of eyedrops,
the sea of mouthwash, the lake of skin creme,
collecting the ropes washed up on the shore
and seeing who can untie the most wet knots.
I'll present  you with a ring set with
the 24 Karat kidney stone I passed
on our last anniversary 

We'll stay at that motel on the cliffs
and spend the dark and stormy night
huddled in front of the laptop,
eating croutons out of the box
and watching reruns of our favorite show,
that one we used to star in before ratings plummeted and
they killed both our characters off and replaced them
with younger versions of ourselves
We'll set the alarm on the sundial
and set the VCR to record our dreams
so we'll have something to bore our grandkids with.
Here's to another fifty pounds, my love,
another 750 cans.

Safeway Love Poem

There’s a pigeon strutting along

in front of the soup bar

inside the Safeway

Some little kids scream with delight

as they try to chase it out

the automatic doors

but it keeps running away from them.

The doors keep opening and closing

as right outside, a homeless man

crouches on the curb

with a full case of bottled water

unscrewing the caps one by one

and pouring all the water

into the sewer grate

Across the street, a couple of guys

try to sell me a case of Corona

but I’ve got my container of soup in one hand

and a bouquet of flowers in the other

the third-cheapest ones they had

because even though it’s not payday yet

I just couldn’t wait

Song of the Ex-Wife

Like a geriatric cat he disappeared

beneath the porch, into the briars,

into the ether. Or maybe the belly of a coyote.

Who fucking knows with that husband of mine,

that sad pelican of a man. That puffed-up toad

squirting blood from his eyes.

He had a picture of my chest

tattooed across his chest.

When our song came on the radio

he’d slam on the brakes and refuse to drive

until it was over, even if we were in the middle

of a busy freeway.

When he taught our babies to swim

he made them wear parachutes

instead of water wings.

That husband of mine? Oh, where should I begin!

He brought me flowers every night

and wouldn’t let me leave the table until

I’d swallowed every petal.

He bought me candy in heart-shaped boxes

and we’d go down to the bridge over the river

and chuck the truffles at passing barges.

In bed he’d knot his long, long arms

around my neck so tight I couldn’t breathe.

He appeared once on a TV game show

with a team made up of his other wives,

then blew it all on the lightning round.

That husband of mine would get drunk and 

buy billboard space and plaster copies of

his restraining orders across them.

Oh I could go on. Every night

he’d sing for hours to the babies

until they begged him to stop.

Finally he packed them all up into the Lamborghini

and drove to the Indian casino on the edge of town,

where he lost them all in a high-stakes game

of rock, paper, scissors. All the dealers knew

that my husband, that snake in the corn,

that rat in the china shop, that fat little

panting corgi of a man, would always only ever

pick nothing but scissors.