My cat doesn’t tense in the moments I set
him down, because he knows I’ll make sure
his feet find soft landing, because I mean
for him to associate being held with the
promise of safety, and we delight in this
ease, tender man and orange tabby,
watching the train rip by through
the rain-specked glass.
A lover mocks me for the way I pace
in his kitchen, why are you like this, and
I laugh, and neither of us thinks about
how sad this is, how nervous I become in
every room where he controls the
temperature, and it goes on this way
until it doesn’t, and thank God it doesn’t.
My friend, over text, seems delighted
and surprised
when I meet his joke with warmth, and
I wonder where the hell I’ve been, feel
shame rinse down my spine as I
remember the energy I couldn’t escape,
why do I become so prickly whenever
I am healing, and am I worth loving
on the days I am not very lovable?
Wednesday evening, couch cartoons, and
I mention what I’m going through, hurry
through to the conclusion, and my friend tells me
no, you don’t have to do that, and
my throat catches, is there ever really
time for my broken bones to mend,
his eyes say yes, and I hope to believe them.
michael king 