Psalm

Cats of paper and pencil. Cats deep in embryonic thought.
Cats who write only on Mondays and always begin with
bladder. Bladder this and bladder that. Then they turn
the page.
pppp I watch them. Beseechingly, I stand behind them. May I
stick my fingers down their throats? May I squeeze their inner
truths until I'm faint? Let me do this in the name of envy,
before I bow my head, before I bind my hands, thumb over
thumb, in reams of thistle.
pppp Cats of obsequious margins. Cats with middle initials and
big snappy verbs. Cats who never swear. Instead they press
down hard.p Isn't it sadder that the food is badder. A puddle of
drool and the gray one growing plump and moody, like Kafka
on his wooden stool.
pppp Let's not pretend. They sharpen their pencils. Lords of
lead and petty anecdotes: a butcher, a resurrection, an island
slapped silly by belligerent tides.p May I kneel in the shadow of
cats, may crows bounce off my forehead.
pppp It's true. I've called them names, made unbecoming
noises, imagined their tails tucked deep inside them. I am
shameful.p All of me. Forgive my fingers. Forgive my desire.


From YOU CAN TELL THE HORSE ANYTHING (Tupelo Press, 2003)