I ate the cat. It was the first Tuesday
of winter and I was missing you. Thought
maybe the taste of your palm print could still
be found as it slid down but I only coughed out
hairballs for weeks. I opened the dusty closet, found
your favorite scarf, hand-sewn sweaters, slurped
them string by string but your scent wasn’t hiding
in the arm holes or collar trims. I was afraid
of my mouth, the way it wouldn’t stop speaking
your name. I ate our words,
the local dialect, our language of angels stripped
of all definitions. Some things couldn’t be swallowed:
the leftover slice of pecan pie, old photographs
too sweet to eat, the starved future
that we once feasted upon together.
I started licking door frames
and floorboard cracks, gnawing on scribbled notes
that carried sacred messages like
Headed Out
We Needed Peaches
I thought I’d die from hunger. Chewed
the walls of our once-home down to their bones, stood
still in its empty lot trying to stop my stomach
from spewing our life back up, knowing no one
would want to bear witness to such a stunning mess. I wish
I had eaten you when I had the chance, kept you
somewhere safe. Is it too late
to crawl into my open mouth, remind me
of spring, of what it feels like to be full?