July 10, 2016 § 2 Comments

the-storm                                                                                                                              Edvard Munch. The Storm


As a very young woman, I liked the word “regret.” I liked the way it sounded, its Frenchness. “Je ne regrette rien” comes to mind, of course, but I don’t think it was that song, more swaggering and maudlin than I would have appreciated at 18, that drew me to the word. I see it in print: black on white, the discreet letters with that fat g in the middle. Everything regretted (still desired) lurks within that g. A Google search gives me: “from Old French regreter ‘bewail (the dead),’ perhaps from the Germanic base of ‘greet’ (weep; cry.)”

Regret also sounds like my own first name, though I didn’t realize that until I started writing this. Mostly I liked it because it was a signifier of a lived life and of melancholy, and while I had plenty of the latter—and stubbornly clung to it—the former was still a mystery. One cannot regret without having done something, unless one regrets doing nothing or not enough—and even that seemed oddly appealing to me at 19 or 21: languid, somnolent, poetic. Sometime around then, or perhaps a couple of years later, I read Henry James’ great novella The Beast in the Jungle, which is all about the life unlived, death-like regret, and how it can be created, piece by piece, by a longing for beauty, mystery, the sublime.

I had a longing for beauty, mystery, the sublime. It was the part of myself I was most proud of. I thought it would take me to the tops of mountains, the depths of oceans, distant magical cities. I wouldn’t be so foolish as the man in the story, though. I knew that, just as I knew that I wanted to write with as much breathtaking poise and discernment as James, albeit with a bit more sex. And I haven’t been (as foolish, I mean). I have been differently foolish. This is not the place to list all my mistakes, especially because even now I can’t tease out what were really mistakes and what is the ongoing mistake to consider something a mistake. But I am well acquainted with regret.

It is corrosive, unrelenting. It is a constant yammer, the obverse of the self-consciousness of youth, which thinks itself so different as to be monstrous, while regret knows one is so similar as to be banal and will beat you about the head for it. Regret is neither generous nor kind. I associate it with those travellers (in fiction as in life) who fasten on strangers and pour out their resentments and self-pity, hour upon hour, into a time stretched to forever. At best, this is comedy. I think of Lot’s wife who was turned into a pillar of salt because she looked over her shoulder. I was never a bible student so I assumed religious people knew what this meant and only recently discovered that there is a bit of discussion about it. Did her action reveal her longing for what was left behind (including her daughters), or did she merely suffer the effect of gazing upon the face of the destroying God? What does salt have to do with it? The story of Lot’s wife’s is akin to the Orpheus and Eurydice story. An utterly human reaction, glancing back to make sure she really follows, means the rule broken and the wife lost.

When I first read them, I found these stories unfair. Not that I didn’t understand they were metaphors; I still found them unfair. It takes age to bring a different perspective, to see the clear and present danger of too much looking back and therefore the need for such tales, opaque as they may be to young readers. The implicit message is: trust God (or the god). I don’t, actually, but I admit I ought to trust something; would be happier if there were an area of life, loosely called the spirit, where I could let go and believe that if this is not the best of times and circumstances, it’s the only one I have and therefore, by default, the best. It is a time infinite until it is over, minutes upon minutes upon hours, and who can say any of us deserve more than this unfathomable magic?

There is a place for regret, perhaps the place I imagined at 20; the older person, standing by a window looking out at the rain, mind touching lightly upon wrong turns, wrongdoing, feeling a shiver of sorrow and something else, something ineffable and French. The older person is beautifully dressed, in a spacious and well appointed library, standing on two healthy limbs, looking at a landscape that does not include leering demons, crazed assault rifle murderers, mutant giant insects, unnamed evil from beyond the stars.

My library is not spacious (it is also my bedroom and work space). There’s no room to stand by the window because boxes of jewelry-making supplies and old notebooks are piled everywhere, and the windows are dirty anyway. And if I did look, because I do look, this direction or that, inside and out, what I see too often is leering mutant evil from beyond the stars.

I regret that.


Ode to the Unbroken World, Which Is Coming

It must be coming, mustn’t it? Churches
and saloons are filled with decent humans.
A mother wants to feed her daughter,
fathers to buy their children things that break.
People laugh, all over the world, people laugh.
We were born to laugh, and we know how to be sad;
we dislike injustice and cancer,
and are not unaware of our terrible errors.
A man wants to love his wife.
His wife wants him to carry something.
We’re capable of empathy, and intense moments of joy.
Sure, some of us are venal, but not most.
There’s always a punchbowl, somewhere,
in which floats a…
Life’s a bullet, that fast, and the sweeter for it.
It’s the same everywhere: Slovenia, India,
Pakistan, Suriname—people like to pray,
or they don’t,
or they like to fill a blue plastic pool
in the back yard with a hose
and watch their children splash.
Or sit in cafes, or at table with family.
And if a long train of cattle cars passes
along West Ridge
it’s only the cattle from East Ridge going to the abattoir.
The unbroken world is coming,
(it must be coming!), I heard a choir,
there were clouds, there was dust,
I heard it in the streets, I heard it
announced by loudhailers
mounted on trucks.

–Thomas Lux


For my Brother on His 65th Birthday

February 1, 2016 § 5 Comments

Jimmy.6?My oldest brother, Jimmy, was born today, 65 years ago. He died at just 14, so it’s a little hard to imagine him old enough for Medicare. If I try I can see his face: wrinkles around the eyes, the soft skin, the lines cut near the mouth so like my mother’s. His hair, if he were like the rest of us, wouldn’t be all gray yet. He’d probably have a few extra pounds, but maybe not; he was the only athlete in the family. He’d have a wife, certainly, and kids. He gave his cat to my sister (who already had a cat) the summer we successfully begged two new ones, so he wouldn’t have one of those. I can’t picture his house or imagine his career, though he had more openness to the wide world than the rest of us. I decided to be a writer at 7; my sister the veterinarian always loved animals. My younger brother’s focus seemed to be on not growing up and he’s made that work for him, though he’s incredibly responsible and caring, particularly with our mother, and earns a living. But he’s never had a career and wouldn’t want one—“Johnny” and “career” just don’t mix. Jimmy, though—I can see Jimmy having a career. I just can’t tell you which one.

What you lose when you are as old as I am is the belief that such a thing shouldn’t happen to you. My brother. My mother’s child. How can I say that when I read about Brazilian babies born with microcephaly or Syrian children drowning off the coast of Greece? Sure, in the world I would create, if someone would only make me God, children wouldn’t die. Nobody’s children, ever, nor suffer horrible diseases, disabilities, cruelty, abuse or neglect.

But this is the world we have and everybody dies unexpectedly, even if the doctor just said about the 98-year-old, “It will happen tonight.” The crossing from one moment to the next is inexplicable, unbearable, and the foundation of the world. We all know we wouldn’t be here without the millions and millions of deaths the world is built on, from the earliest life forms, the amoebas, blind fish, saber-tooths and Neanderthals, to our grandparents getting out of our way. It is a spiritual practice to learn to see death (mostly one’s own) as akin to a leaf falling: ordinary, lovely, reassuring.

When I was 10, I wouldn’t have given my life for my brother’s. I knew I was selfish that way and suspected my parents might have chosen differently if they had any say in the matter. I didn’t blame them for that: it was enough that I would choose myself. Now, of course, it’s different. I think I’d give what years I have left to have had him with me since 1965, though who knows what I’d really do if Rod Serling appeared with a notarized offer. The tricky thing about thought experiments like this is that if there is some being with the power to change life and death and time, death loses much of its sting. (My Catholic aunt died happy that she was soon to see Jesus.) The point of death as we know it is, as people like me know it, people who are not believers—though sometimes we have our fancies—is that it is faceless and indifferent. You may be killed by a maniac with a knife or a drug-addicted doctor, but death itself has no personality.

That is what Buddhists say to embrace. The no-thing. Let go of the material world, which passes. Beloveds, who die. It’s easier to imagine doing that now than it was at 10—much easier. I have far less longing, curiosity, wild wonder at beauty and knowledge, less ambition (though it’s still there, banked coals). But if one is to let go, why, I wonder, is it so important to be kind? The Dalai Lama, who knows a lot about this, says that’s all that really matters: kindness.

I am kind, when I am, because of death and suffering, because I understand that you don’t want it to all be over, to lose them and the world and yourself; and you will. It is the proper response to the barely put together shambling creatures we are, hugging our wounds like furry little sharp-toothed pets. Jimmy was kind (not always). He knew how to be. He would be more so now. I’m with the Greeks: the dead still exist someplace but it’s really nowhere, no food, nothing to look at, nothing to do. No punishment or reward. Just awareness, forever, that there is such a thing as life and you don’t have it.

What I mean is, that’s the death I carry with me. Not Heaven, Nirvana, or nothingness (how to carry that?) But a bunch of shades in a dim cavern, remembering feasts and friendships, the sun on the waves: love, jealousy, betrayal. Or that moment when you wake up before everyone else and look at them sleeping: this one’s mouth open, drool on his lip, sun on his hair; that one curled in a ball, blanket over her head. Dreams pacing under eyelids. Husband, wife, mother, father, sister, brother, child, cat.

What I miss most is what I never knew or could have known: who he was in the privacy of his mind. I knew he was there, in his kingdom. Thinking, laughing. Making plans. It was always a secret. I wanted to bite that secret open. Never could, never would have. By now, if he’d lived, I’d have forgotten. But since he’s still 14, a part of me is still 10, and I miss him like a little sister does, wanting to know everything.


Making a Fist


We forget that we are all dead men conversing with dead men.

—Jorge Luis Borges


For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,

I felt the life sliding out of me,

a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.

I was seven, I lay in the car

watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.

My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.


“How do you know if you are going to die?”

I begged my mother.

We had been traveling for days.

With strange confidence she answered,

“When you can no longer make a fist.”


Years later I smile to think of that journey,

the borders we must cross separately,

stamped with our unanswerable woes.

I who did not die, who am still living,

still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,

clenching and opening one small hand.



January 29, 2016 § Leave a comment



Lovely night at the Cathedral with passionate gardeners talking about seeds: old seeds, heirloom seeds, seeds as inspiration, freedom, art; as child you watch over and as parent that feeds you. They spoke of colleagues whose grandparents started saving seeds in the 1930s, freezing them in baby food bottles. They told stories of rare plants, plant diseases, the taste of okra, the Black labor that picked the cotton and the prisoners who pick it now. They asked people’s opinions of what the phrase “keeping seeds” connotes versus the more prosaic “saving seeds.”

“Protection” “Cherish” “Caring,” said audience members.  Keepsake, I thought. For keeps. Stronghold.

They spoke as part of The Value of Food art exhibition (through April 3rd in all the bays and chapels of the Cathedral) to an audience of seventy or so people who want to grow food in Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx, Philadelphia, New Jersey, upstate. The veteran city gardener Karen Washington, who successfully faced off against Giuliani in the 90s, organized the event with panelists Owen Taylor, Ken Greene, Onika Abraham, Chris Bolden Newsome, and Kirtrina Baxter. These are the people who are rescuing what’s left of America’s once-amazing diversity of fruits and vegetables, squandered by industry in the last seventy-five years. “When I teach, I ask people: do you come from a farm family?” said the African American Chris Bolden Newsome. “If they say no, I say, ‘go back a little further.’ That’s what all our families were doing a hundred years ago.” And further than that—“All of us. That’s what most people do in the world.”

I thought about the house in the country I used to have, where we planted mostly flowers, but also herbs. Where the laden apple and pear trees were treasures for the squirrels and deer, who must have passed their seeds on, though I don’t know if any offspring grew wild in the woods that went up the flank of the mountain. I remembered the smell of dirt in the sun, the resistance of weeds, the persistence of mint, the hardy thyme and insect-laced basil. I ran the numbers: should we buy another house in the county? Abandon Manhattan? Spend more time with plants?

I’d like to. I’d also like to stay here, with the theaters, museums and cathedrals. With the people who enliven me (though plants enliven me too, especially trees). I decided to apply to a few country writers’ colonies for the summer and bought a pack of catnip seeds to plant in a pot in the window. Charles is doubtful they will thrive. With all that we have to do and don’t get done—our messy, on the edge of uncontrollable lives—he’s not sure growing catnip is a necessary endeavor. Our beasts like the stuff we buy at Whiskers just fine. But he wasn’t there. He didn’t hear all the people raising their hands, wanting to know how they can get started growing their own food, saving seeds, avoiding “the seed industrial complex.” Saving the world, one fragile stalk at a time.

Here’s a poem of mine from my chapbook, it all stayed open, Red Glass Press, 2011.

Where I Left Her


Under my lilac

white and grainy as cement dust

two pounds of woman.

I mixed her into the earth

kneeling in light rain.


She loved this tree

would leave me on the porch to walk around it.

When I could glimpse her

only through the slender


supple branches

much more was visible.


May again, bloom time.

I’m busy writing love poems.

But on the bus home

to the city there are women

carrying the harvest, armfuls


and the whole packed crew of us

ride in fragrance.


My lover makes me radiant

friends say—I tremble

like a purple cone of tiny flowers—

and makes me suffer. What I most desire

besides happiness


is to hide my heart

where it can never be recovered.


The Induction of Zora Neale Hurston

November 8, 2015 § Leave a comment


Today, the Cathedral of St. John the Divine inducted Zora Neale Hurston into the Poets Corner during the Sunday Evensong. It was, as the annual inductions always are, full of gorgeous choral music and solemn ritual, with a candlelit procession to the stone where her words “The dream is the truth” were inscribed. Cathedral Poet in Residence Marilyn Nelson talked about what that means for us today, when dreamers and what one might call “dream studies” (the humanities) are being cut from college curricula and treated with general scorn. There is enormous sadness in this for those of us who remember a different era, remember college as being, among other things, a dreamtime. Then she read from Ta-Nehesi’s Coates’ book, Between the World and Me. He uses the word “dreamer” to refer to those lost in the illusion and prison of the American Dream: those who must suffer to create it for others, those who work for it and never achieve it, and those who think they have it and as a result are blind to those around them. Marilyn is inclined to restore the idea of the dream as something hopeful and forward-looking, something that cannot be destroyed by history.

I loved Ta-Nehisi’s book, which I read the week it came out; its darkness was a corrective, a fierce defense of truth as a necessary cleansing, and the growth that comes from having done that, having thrown off, as much as a person can, the murderous glare of society that breaks Black lives.

Who is society? Is it you and me? Only the racist policeman? Where is it exactly? I don’t know the answer to this. I take those tests online that have you respond to words and images quickly to uncover hidden bias: “black” teamed with “good” or “dangerous”—which pairing do you see first?—and find in myself, in the testers’ words, “some racism.” And so. The flaws are there. Coates has them too. What stands out is his uncompromising determination to speak what he has experienced, and the conclusions he has reached—whatever you may think of them. Hurston’s work has that quality as well, with more of the novelist’s embellishment and surrender to enchantment. (And she had her strong opinions and interests, which many disagreed with, and which may have led to her slipping out of the canon for a while.)

We do need—young people especially need—the space and time, the continuous encouragement of art (seeing it, listening and reading it) to create worlds that may never leave our thoughts, or may find a page or a canvas or an instrument, or build an intimacy with friend or lover that remains private always. Dreams are stitched into our lives in small ways as well as the grand—poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world—manner. Dreams light the afternoon walk, the evening dinner preparation, the bedtime storytelling (to child, partner or cat); dreams excrete the atmosphere in which the self can breathe.

And they also veil reality. They distract, they play games with the other—the longed for, hated, neglected or misunderstood other—they are the substance of lies and desire. Hurston writes about her characters Janie and Tea Cake, in Their Eyes were Seeing God, “She couldn’t make him look just like any other man to her. He looked like the love thoughts of women. He could be a bee to a blossom—a pear tree blossom in the spring. He seemed to be crushing scent out of the world with his footsteps. Crushing aromatic herbs with every step he took. Spices hung above him. He was a glance from God.”

Later, after a bite from a rabid dog, he tries to kill her. Dreams are dangerous. Every attempt to truly live is.


September 21, 2015 § 1 Comment


I went to a writing retreat in eastern Oregon for nearly a month, a place called Playa. “Playa” means beach and the beach is that of a vast, mostly dry lake, whose waters are three miles away: all we could see from the residence was the yellow grasses, cakes of sand, birds big and small, and the smoky horizon.  There were wildfires to the north. Closer to home were green grass, roses and sunflowers, snakes and ducks. Behind my cabin, the other cabins and the lodge were mountains—dry sage-greens, grey rock, and lots of birds, coyotes and other creatures. It was very quiet, very remote and beautiful. I was given this great luxury, after one week of driving around with Charles, seeing mountains, waterfalls, lava, Ponderosa forests.

I got much work done—three novels nearly finished, though last night I had doubts, remembering the protagonist needs to care A LOT….about something, anything, a glass of water (Vonnegut)…can I remember what that feels like? Can I drop the self-protectiveness?

then dreams about a place like Playa, though with more sex and more dishes (it’s always something). The real Playa was not about the social/sexual/money-making concerns of adult life but was more like exuberance of childhood when you know that nothing matters more than serious play. I felt embraced by the company of others who also left their usual problems at home and were almost always in a good mood. It occurred to me, after a couple of weeks, that I hadn’t been in a rage since I left New York. No swearing, no wanting to knife the guy ahead of me, throw the phone out the window, none of that. A little shortness of breath (it’s high altitude), some longing for the cats, occasional hunger for chocolate or theater—but no rage.

Writing as serious play is something I’ve been lucky enough to spend my life at, though the last several years have been mostly dry. A rush of poems in 2011 led to a chapbook, then fits and starts, working and reworking the same material, feeling that I had nothing to say, or nothing I was willing to say. My previous writing retreat (two years ago!) was the last time I was deeply engaged. I’ve already misplaced much of the commitment and joy I felt there, but now know I can get it back.

In the morning, the horizon was startlingly white, like a band of salt, and it was cool. At sunset, a stripe of bright gold set off a scribble of blue mountains–as in so much of America, miles of wilderness where nobody lives except the ten thousand thousand species that get by without history. It was hot most of the day with a vast hum of bugs, especially in the evening as we attempted to sit on porches. The coyotes howled, Deb told bear stories, Cai told rattlesnake stories, Mel made a chocolate cake and the hawks landed on the railing of my porch, dribbling feathers.

One night we lay out on the playa, looking at stars. They have more there than in upstate New York or New Hampshire. They have a few extra galaxies—maybe a universe or two—and so close. The stars were smeared all over the sky like snow sticking to a windshield. We talked about this and that, and we wrote with barely any effort at all.

Okay, some effort. Easier than writing this.

And now a poem by William Stafford. I can’t get the spacing right–go look it up if you want.

An Oregon Message

When we first moved here, pulled

the trees in around us, curled

our backs to the wind, no one

had ever hit the moon—no one.

Now our trees are safer than the stars,

and only other people’s neglect

is our precious and abiding shell,

pierced by meteors, radar, and the telephone.

From our snug place we shout

religiously for attention, in order to hide:

only silence or evasion will bring

dangerous notice, the hovering hawk

of the state, or the sudden quiet stare

and fatal estimate of an alerted neighbor.

This message we smuggle out in

its plain cover, to be opened

quietly: Friends everywhere—

we are alive! Those moon rockets

have missed millions of secret

places! Best wishes.

Burn this.


Easter Sunday

April 5, 2015 § Leave a comment

photo (28)Last night I dreamed I was starring in a superhero movie directed by my old flame. I was sitting at a production conference wondering how much weight I’d have to lose by the time shooting started, while the director of photography worried how to film me jumping across rooftops. Other concerns involved email hyperlinks that didn’t work and my whole family lost in an anonymous Paris hotel. From that I woke to Easter Morning, the cats having miraculously provided chocolate eggs from Li-Lac and day-old almond croissants. The afternoon ahead of me will be spent mostly cleaning, with a few walks to break the horror, and an evaluation of the many-times revised first chapters of a novel from a writer I am very fond of, but whose cries for help always involve the fact that he has no time to write, being a parent and full time employee. What can an editor do about this?

My Easter Sundays as a child were made magical by my mother’s love of beauty and abundance: the baskets were gorgeous, with pastel ribbons, a Steiff rabbit, solid chocolate bunnies, various kinds of candy eggs and little toys hidden in the fake but brilliantly green grass. It is something I remember whenever the cat sleeps on my feet: that sudden weight in the darkness, the lesson taught over and over that gifts come in secret yet without fail, that the chaos of dreams is balanced by sunlit and abiding motherly love.

My mother has always found immense joy in domestic creativity, and though she would have had a different life if she’d been born later or in a different place or to a working mother, she knows, as I do now, that the rewards of public life are strident and harsh, harsh as white sugar, cocaine, straight gin—rocketing you to a venomous pleasure not sustainable to those happiest in bedrooms, kitchens, gardens, darkness, the enclosure of baskets and arms.

We both feel sad, sometimes, not to have leveraged our talent and brains to more glittering lives. There’s no doubt we have what it takes, except for our personalities. But most of the world is private, even in public. Most of your most vivid experiences take place in dreams. I’ve met vampires, ghosts, dinosaurs, aliens, angels, gods and talking animals inside my skull. I’ve had innumerable careers, adventures, love affairs and children there. I’ve flown, died, killed, transformed, breathed underwater. I’ve written books more magnificent than anything you have ever read—books that are also cities and cakes, that exist platonically forever, immune to the posturings of culture.

Every night, she comes back from the dead, the Margaret none of you know, the Margaret my mother created in the dark, her daughter that is also herself (if you were wondering where the idea for that particular mystery came from, look at the nearest pregnant woman). If real death were truly like sleep, I wouldn’t mind it at all. But I think in fact is more like sugar, cocaine and straight gin.


The authentic! Shadows of it
sweep past in dreams, one could say imprecisely,
evoking the almost-silent
ripping apart of giant
sheets of cellophane. No.
It thrusts up close. Exactly in dreams
it has you off-guard, you
recognize it before you have time.
For a second before waking
the alarm bell is a red conical hat, it
takes form.


The authentic! I said
rising from the toilet seat.
The radiator in rhythmic knockings
spoke of the rising steam.
The authentic, I said
breaking the handle of my hairbrush as I
brushed my hair in
rhythmic strokes: That’s it,
that’s joy, it’s always
a recognition, the known
appearing fully itself, and
more itself than one knew.


The new day rises
as heat rises,
knocking in the pipes
with rhythms it seizes for its own
to speak of its invention—
the real, the new-laid
egg whose speckled shell
the poet fondles and must break
if he will be nourished.


A shadow painted where
yes, a shadow must fall.
The cow’s breath
not forgotten in the mist, in the
words. Yes,
verisimilitude draws up
heat in us, zest
to follow through,
follow through,
transformations of day
in its turning, in its becoming.


Stir the holy grains, set
the bowls on the table and
call the child to eat.

While we eat we think,
as we think an undercurrent
of dream runs through us
faster than thought
towards recognition.

Call the child to eat,
send him off, his mouth
tasting of toothpaste, to go down
into the ground, into a roaring train
and to school.

His cheeks are pink
his black eyes hold his dreams, he has left
forgetting his glasses.

Follow down the stairs at a clatter
to give them to him and save
his clear sight.

Cold air
comes in at the street door.


The authentic! It rolls
just out of reach, beyond
running feet and
stretching fingers, down
the green slope and into
the black waves of the sea.
Speak to me, little horse, beloved,
tell me
how to follow the iron ball,
how to follow through to the country
beneath the waves
to the place where I must kill you and you step out
of your bones and flystrewn meat
tall, smiling, renewed,
formed in your own likeness.


Marvelous Truth, confront us
at every turn,
in every guise, iron ball,
egg, dark horse, shadow,
of breath on the air,

in our crowded hearts
our steaming bathrooms, kitchens full of
things to be done, the
ordinary streets.

Thrust close your smile
that we know you, terrible joy.

–Denise Levertov

In the Middle of the Journey of his Life

April 4, 2015 § Leave a comment

FITZROY_0014The cat is having a midlife crisis. He is almost fifty, in human years, and he’s getting that bitter, is this all there is, what about me, huh? This is my only fucking life attitude I remember from before I embraced the annihilation of all my dreams and shot desire through the heart.

He’s in the bad place and he wants us there with him. So it’s meow, meow, meow from 10 pm until one of us wakes up the next morning. Meow while Charles, Mouchette and I watch Nurse Jackie, Cat TV (birds) and the beginnings of movies Charles is interested in that I respond to nastily: “I don’t want to watch a movie about old men. Not even with Al Pacino.”

My husband takes no offense. We have the tolerance/forgiveness thing down pat. You might say we find our flaws the best joke of all.


He wants to go out in the hall. He wants more food. He wants to be picked up and baby-talked to.

MEOW, he says, meaning FUCK YOU.


He wants me to go in the hall with him and I give in. He trots at my heels, his claws making little clicks as he lifts them off the carpet. He sniffs under every other door. He’s looking for a way out, and I tell him that’s the feline/human condition. Then I soften.

“Honey, we should buy a country house in Connecticut for the cats.”

“Not for that little bastard.”

“But Mouchette. Look at her! She wants birds.”

“She has birds right here.”

“She wants real birds.”
“No, she digs it, look at her.”

She’s on top of the TV, trying to find out where the birds on the screen are coming from. She walks over the manual switch and turns off the set.

“Postmodern hunting,” I say.
Fitzroy meows in rage that we’re talking about Mouchette.

He meows at four a.m. He meows until I get out of bed. He purrs when I hold him in my arms, and rub my face on his face. He has no idea that love can die, that women have breaking points, that life is the nightmare of a psychopathic god. He reminds me of me and I have to stop for a minute, recall that he is not in fact my child, that the 24-hour labor I remember so vividly, the doctor horrified at the furry monstrous kitten that came out clawing is only the sort of symptom writers get when they don’t write.

To A Cat

Cat! who has pass’d thy grand climacteric,
How many mice and rats hast in thy days
Destroy’d? How many tit-bits stolen? Gaze
With those bright languid segments green, and
Those velvet ears – but prythee do not stick
Thy latent talons in me – and tell me all thy frays,
Of fish and mice, and rats and tender chick;
Nay, look not down, nor lick thy dainty wrists, –
For all the wheezy asthma – and for all
Thy tail’s tip is nick’d off – and though the fists
Of many a maid have given thee many a maul,
Still is thy fur as when the lists
In youth thou enter’dst on glass-bottled wall.

John Keats


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