Tame

The feral cat I’ve tethered since September
to a supply of Fancy Feast still has all her distrust intact—
she keeps her distance, even on the coldest nights.
I am still not quite familiar with myself, either, I guess:
I get lost in the cemetery, looking for my ancestors, tripping on roots.
What I’ve always liked about my family
is the way no one ever says how they really feel,
so it is possible to imagine anything.
I make sure to tell the cat I love you,
so she will not have to become a poet, like me.
She moves like a girl who has never been burdened
with her own reflection. I remember that I used to like my shoulders,
and growing up it seemed that boys liked them too—
but it has been a long time since I gave them much thought.
It’s a shame when the particulars of yourself start to disappear
into the routine of days you didn’t make
and have little stake in. These days I tell my students
the point of discomfort is interesting to investigate—
but I know that I am usually not that brave.
I’m a housecat, really: I swore off heartbreak
after the last one carved me up in the standard way.
I told myself I’ll die if I’m not tamed.
I say Kitty, this is your bowl. Your very own.
Behind the house the weeds are full of Greek mythology,
and the last full moon kept me up for two nights straight.
But the frost is coming. I creep closer and closer
to the woodstove. Soon I will be all the way inside,
docile to the point that anyone might put a match to me
and be warmed by my burning for a long, long time.