Snow and Dew and Love For You

yes, that's the cat :)

By. MJB

I Miss Your Cat More Than You

I keep driving past you in traffic.

Not in some grand metaphorical sense,

but literally,

I keep seeing you in your work van.

Maybe that sums us up-

just a moment in our lives

flying

past

one

another

(where I notice you, and you keep looking forward).

I sat at my Grandmother’s kitchen counter

(a woman once divorced from a careless man).

She told me to pray to God more often,

and to be grateful I was miserable with myself,

and not miserable with someone else.

You gave me nothing.

Nothing but mixed signals,

and mental anguish,

and nights so warm

you almost didn’t notice when the sun rose to dry the dew

from the fields of our small town.

But I should have just stolen your little black cat.

He was much more generous with his trust than you.

Sometimes,

I look through the spyhole,

and I gander at the men who wait in the hall.

I wonder how I’ll open the door to them

when you slammed it back

in my face.

I Am My Father’s Daughter

Etchings from past students

inhabit the once-empty wall space.

I wonder if it looked the same

when my father sat in this stool.

I look for his name sometimes.

I feel the wooden rail of the bar

look up at me.

She jumps a little,

seeing his blue eyes,

and dark waves,

and pitiful smile.

His alma mater knows us well.

I haunt the sidewalks–

a ghost of my father.

I took one of his watches

when I visited home,

so that maybe time would pass for me

as it did for him.

I guess,

I thought then I’d understand

why he’s so sad.

Going North

A winter wonderland

is different

than a frozen tundra,

and I live up North.

The winter begins in November,

and ends in May (if you’re lucky).

The days are short and overcast,

the nights are long and dim,

and the eyes of passersby are hollow.

I look in the mirror.

My skin is white,

my lips are gray,

my hair is dark,

and as I blink,

the skin around my eyes flakes a little.

Yes this winter wonderland is magical and bright

as we retreat to our college apartments,

and cling to the warmth of our space heaters.

Layers,

upon layers,

upon layers

of cotton fabric.

Is there a girl under there somewhere?

When the sun does come out though,

she reflects off the ice sheets,

and blinds those

who prayed for her,

but didn’t prepare.