Untitled #6

Her voice is a plum fruit
filled with anxiety. The rest of the time
she sings songs without melodies.

She loves me in a punch-drunk
kind of way. And the hangover is blinding.
My cat perches on the edge of the sofa,
and puffs up when she enters.

She is not under contract,
threatens to leave once a day,
The cage door is left open,
she dances on the doorstep.

I keep hiding her in a box,
but she refuses to stay locked away.
Instead, we spend most of our time
looking for each other.

She is a messenger from the heavens
who has forgotten her speech
Her uneasiness makes holes
past the wall, against the stones.


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