“something is waiting to hatch”

by Beth Gordon

I don’t know how my father’s last breath sang, 

whether that song like a caterpillar 

spinning or a stadium imploding

in a thunder-ed release of spores & worms, 

can be found in the dreams of the black cat. 

The black cat dreams, I’m sure of it. I don’t 

know what he dreams. I can Google cat dreams. 

I can Google the number of muscles 

in the human body but I prefer 

to believe it is endless as a bowl.

The black cat doesn’t count muscles or bones. 

I don’t know the name of the bird who lives 

in the rhododendron bush, so fractured

by purple blooms I forget to Google 

his markings and the way he carries worms 

to a hidden nest. Something is waiting

to hatch. The black cat doesn’t know the name 

of the bird but he dreams of brown wings: bones

in his claws. I don’t know how many moles 

are on my back. My ex-lovers may know 

but I don’t know where they are, not the names 

of cities or avenues: phone numbers. 

I know my father’s muscles swam away

like fish. He had twenty moles. The black cat

is always sleeping when I walk into 

a room. I don’t know if he is breathing 

until he opens his fiery green eyes 

and speaks. I don’t know what he is saying.

Beth Gordon is a poet, mother and grandmother currently living in Asheville, NC. Her poetry has been widely published and nominated for Best of the Net, the Pushcart Prize, and the OrisonAnthology. She is the author of two previous chapbooks, and her full-length poetry collection, This Small Machine of Prayer, was published in 2021 (Kelsay Books). Her third chapbook, The Water Cycle, is being published by Variant Lit in February 2022. She is Managing Editor of Feral: A Journal of Poetry and Art, Assistant Editor of Animal Heart Press, and Grandma of Femme Salve Books.