Jazeki

To the vagabond queen who appears in the middle of my driveway at midnight, to you, with cinnamon stripes illuminated in the amber porchlight glow: my rocking chair cushion is yours. I’ve caught glimpses of you peeking through the bay window blinds, a feral ghost drifting through and I’ve heard your arguments with passing travelers, now jilted lovers. Yes, I’ve heard your unbecoming screams and I know you return again and again after your stroll about the kingdom in silent reverie, deaf to the fanfare of crickets and other night creatures. To the vagabond queen, I offer thanks. You are my only constant when the manic trembling of loneliness in a too-empty house sets in. As I gaze upon your tiny form, the stress purr of my heart stills. I’m sure you’ve heard it, even so. Other-form, you understand.

If asked, I admit: sometimes, I think back to the crane, keening over her mate’s shattered wing on the side of the highway and how she refused to leave his side, even as feathers blew softly through the haze of exhaust others, to the Muscovy who sat on a half-empty nest outside the public library window for weeks, waiting to hatch shattered eggs because some boys practiced masculinity in summer boredom occasionally, to the stray kitten lying in the backyard of my childhood home, fur glistening in the morning dew (my heart crying, you must be asleep. wake up! wake up!) and my guilt over leading her home, but not insisting that she be taken inside to be safe from the dangers of the outside world i was the one to bury her among the snapdragons and the hollyhocks—she, too, perennial all these, familiar existing piecemeal in my subconscious to help reconcile the wildest parts of grief and mortality

to the vagabond queen who stations herself in the middle of my driveway at midnight with cinnamon stripes illuminated in the amber porchlight glow, my rocking chair cushion is yours i’ve caught glimpses of you peeking through the bay window blinds, a feral ghost drifting through and i’ve heard your arguments with passing travelers, now jilted lovers yes, i’ve heard your unbecoming screams and your desperate cries in the dark of may and i know you return again and again after your stroll about the kingdom in silent reverie, deaf to the fanfare of crickets and other night creatures to the vagabond queen, i offer thanks you are my only constant when the manic trembling of loneliness in an otherwise empty house sets in and when i gaze upon your tiny form, the stress purr of my heart stills i’m sure you’ve heard it, even so mother-form, you understand

Or perhaps, really, to the paralysis demon, who always stands in the leftmost corner of my once-bedroom at my parents’ house—they call it the guest room now (as you and I are reserved for pleasantries, short-term stays): Anyway, dear paralysis demon who also sometimes stands—or floats— in the leftmost corner of my own bedroom, who daintily frequents the space above the sweetgrass, the incense, and the tarot just beyond the reach of moonlight streaming through the bedroom, my condolences. I think that’s what you want, right? Condolences. Apologies. For refusing to acknowledge your clockwork visits during eclipses and moon phases, in sickness and health—an uninvited guest determined to keep watch. I know you sometimes mimic cryptic promises back to me in my own voice in the dead of night about death and what should happen if I— Anyway, my darling, sorry. I think perhaps you’re jealous, honestly— that you can’t take something slightly more well, affectionate, than an amorphic form: a

I believed you once and only once when you told me you loved me in the early morning light as you traced the freckles on my chest with slow and deliberate strokes as if practicing an incantation

Pink rising in your cheeks like the first blush of sun on the horizon.

You speak of my love in flowers before slipping away, like leaves in an icy wind.

Oh, to be ivy crawling across endless wall, filling cracks, grooving with daylight on an eternal sundial Oh, to have an understanding of who I’m supposed to be, to outlast the constant construct that’s been laid before me—time upon time and year upon year Oh, to take a moment to myself to speak of things beyond my self and your self, knowing piecemeal thoughts without hesitation Oh, to come to terms with the concept of we, us who are we and what does this mean if I turn my head in your general direction with a careful smile Oh, but what am I waiting for with discipline self-imposed what would it hurt to shake loose of expectations for a night at least, to walk barefoot into the soft caress of freedom Oh, whose hearts are these, what peace offering made in exchange for existing hand in affectionate hand whose lines have I memorized in the glow of lantern fires and what kindling have I gathered Oh, are you also enamored with pinwheels endlessly spinning, or is it just the

which aspect of Spring would you prefer— the garden party sunny-side, heaped over with hollandaise, a quick deviling, a three-day course in the art of proper table manners and what constitutes Sunday best or would you rather a controlled burn, a reckoning, a shade off the idea of a haint blue door, hares split between the country house and the city house because no bunny’s perfect anymore too many flies in the honey traps now too many chickies in this basket (what a case, a suit to follow)