Jan 3, 2016
passion is a demon I’ve made my pet
Summer was dramatic, so I read in the dark
more and slept on the floor.
On the windier days, I’d hide
in the long grass, reach down my throat,
and pull out my heart.
It is now a precious, precious thing
that I house in the well
of my hands and must
carry to a window when
it yawns.
It will never let me settle.
It heaves and rubs its back
against my fingers;
it is my cat in heat. Sometimes we
talk to each other fiercely.
I always worry we’ll grow apart.
