Blue Clay

No, it wasn’t anything besides the way in which you stepped sheepishly into the overgrown, wet lawn with your city, dress-up loafers, wearing the air of cat-on-the-go smiling at women seeing their giving to you the sardine slick of their oils.

You had a coffee in hand, at first I thought maybe you’d gotten me a gift, but it was yours and yours alone as I stood in faded tan work vest to dig up the offending witch grasses so that I could plant late fall rosemary and a squat, purplish leafed blueberry bush.

I couldn’t help but cease up, choke down some unexpected tears that just came in that moment I saw the way in which your eyes were glowing with brown lights all self-focused after all of the work you’d laid out the night before, me combing through it all the night long and even this morning, wielding the pitch fork, after all, it was a part of my collage and not a sign you were yet ready to wear on your lapel—I doubt the day will ever come?

Yes, I think I would too, believe that this was some pre-meditated exchange, a way to trick you in some way to my own miseries we can blame it on depression, or whore-moans (hormones) or me just being stuck in the glue-of-shit, wading in to get you.

Soft, oh so soft, little black bunny who is in the end just a time-bomb, the hourglass of red in black, the little slit, between her legs that is her vagina, the cave to wounds, the smells of fresh blood on your legs, your arms, your hands and band-aids will no longer hide what you’ve been up to.

And, though you see me as a dog wearing golden bracelets, I am still a cat. A heavy jaguar with golden eyes and the swinging tits of a feline whose given birth, the one who leads you with the drum, guides you deep into my jungle, for you know as well as any, I am afraid of dogs and their sudden lurching barks. And so images are easily re-arranged, stories given sluggish, misleading titles.

Cartoons are for kids silly rabbit, make a digitized separation, split, slit, her dripping parts, the hyper rounding curves, the mouths on both ends gaping—take out, from these your mother, your sister, your counselor, your teacher—blame the smell of chicken of the sea when you have to cut out the head, the heart and make it speak in any way you’d like.

Work me, mold me, cold, blue clay, from stardust and inferno, scraped up with bare nails, from the banks of the river waters--form me into an ever-widening dish to catch your fishy milks, your old hole cutter grows less in its ability to push through too tight caves. I do, I will, open in any way you need.

Photo Credit: Phinehas Narra/unsplash