But all artists
(they say)
are in
“permanent internal exile”.
-Ken Bolton
late one night, searching myself for
anything at all really, the cat burning
like a little stove on my chest, just breathing,
the bodily spectacle of it, impossibly regular, as if programmed
to simulate living, she pins me flat, black anchor,
desperate for something to go to sleep for,
to wake up for, there’s a book within reach and
I try it, throw it back in disgust, why is the question
my hand asks her fur, whyyy / whyyy / whyyy,
a rower stroking a midnight river, I cut the night’s
surface, try to swim through it, feel nothing,
no friction to pull against, even if I found
a reason to get off the couch she would throw guilt at me
like a net, I think, although you can only understand half
of what she’s thinking, which is innocence,
the innocence of hedonism, her bliss keeps my dissociation
warm, weighing on my lungs, I give up
and suddenly she jumps off me, has some business
in the shadows of the kitchen, I try to see
what she’s doing, find myself standing
alone in a silent room, floating out to sea
treading nightwater, hoping that there’s
a search party somewhere
planning to resume at daybreak
Kristian Radford is a Melbourne-based writer. His poems have been published in journals including Cordite Poetry Review, Otoliths and Interior. He works as a high school teacher.
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