Because I was afraid to sleep alone
I turned to her.
I turned to her boobs.
I turned to her food.
I turned to singing folk songs too.
In that old house
made of river stone
in that old neighborhood in
I turned to my cats too
when they’d go clickety clack on
the hardwood floors in the night
my heart would call out
and I could tell the click and the clack
of my polydactyl girl cat from
the pit and the patter of my little blue
in that old house
made of river stone.
I could call out in the southern
and they would answer me
and come lay by my side through
until the morning sun turned the air
into that phosphorescent tone
of orange and white.
Pinky’s head smells sweet.
Like fresh washed laundry
or a pack of Smarties.
I’m not exactly sure why.
There’s nothing in my house
that would smell like this.
The chemo-induced diabetes has control of me.
I haven’t done laundry in two months.
It smells rancid around here in fact.
sheets covered in the hormonal
scent of a vanishing man.
I think somehow,
as a reflection of her tender soul,
Pinky just smells sweet.
I keep smelling her head.
I want to kiss her over and over,
to somehow change my life,
to be jettisoned from the planet,
to clean up this filthy house,
to exorcise this disease,
to be loved by a woman again,
to correct the mistakes,
the incorrectness she labeled me with,
to alter time and moment,
to create a new manner of existence.