Missing You

Missing You by Dante Novario I ate the cat. It was the first Tuesdayof winter and I was missing you. Thoughtmaybe the taste of your palm print could stillbe found as it slid down but I only coughed out hairballs for weeks. I opened the dusty closet, foundyour favorite scarf, hand-sewn sweaters, slurpedthem string by string but your scent wasn’t hidingin the arm holes or collar trims. I was afraid of my mouth, the way it wouldn’t stop speakingyour name. I ate our words,the local dialect, our language of angels strippedof all definitions. Some things couldn’t be swallowed: the leftover slice of pecan pie, old photographstoo sweet to eat, the starved futurethat we once feasted upon together. I started licking door framesand floorboard cracks, gnawing on scribbled notesthat carried sacred messages likeHeaded OutWe Needed Peaches I thought I’d die from hunger. Chewedthe walls of our once-home down to their bones, stoodstill in its empty lot trying to stop my stomachfrom spewing our life back up, knowing no one would want to bear witness to such a stunning mess. I wishI had eaten you when I had the chance, kept yousomewhere safe. Is it too lateto crawl into my open mouth, remind meof spring, of what it feels like to be full? Poetry Home Art by Michael Moreth