Who She Is

she sulked on the cane couch pissed
at her father or at me or at someone
she couldn't name her nights spent
alone with piewacket*/no that's not
true his name was dumfer, dumfer
the blonde cat born to hide only
comfortable in the pot smoke and
the jacard lace the steady low
voice of waylon or willie or cohen
in the room speaking about loss
or will or inevitable destruction
surely she will rise in the garden of her life
her flesh laboring from the chains of
deception she has strung together
this time surely she will cast them
off and find the sphere of energy
it's enchantments still a surface
to her joy surely the day is blessed
even in her confessional the time
leaking through the sheets the lost
child of her childhood walking the
empty streets of sinatra-town
Surely I could have helped or
at least not have become a dark
corner necessitating the magical
attack the natal lie surely I could have
been a better friend despite her cruelty
and her ego-centric dancing surely
I was no better than she in those days
walking half ass on the side of the side
of my foot graceful in my idiocy.
Her name was Cecil
Her cat was Dumfer
She once was raped in Italy
She fucked out of pity
These are conjectures masquerading as fact.
Who is hidden here is beyond measure.
Certainly she is a goddess, come
to puzzle her way through this suspect
ever-decaying scene. I chase these
brief moments of clarity. I grasp at the
details of an apocalypse of sorts.
I wonder at the cellular growth
in the lacunae of these lives. I am
Still writing it down. Still trying to be
honest. Still not a hero nor a judge.
Still not willing to swim to the bottom of the loch
and breath the cold water.


* The name of the cat in "Bell, Book & Candle," (1958) a movie about contemporary witchcraft starring Kim Novak and Jimmy Stewart.