Gatto

He told me, casually, while lying on my couch
(his eyes dark and round as nectarine pits, fingers
like asparagus—firm, yet steamed—legs the laziest
blonde spaghetti to've been thrown against the wall)—
"You are like a cat." I stopped tugging at the edges
of the cushions, intrigued—a simile? I'm insatiable.
Pretend I'm blind and illustrate it, please.

"When you aren't curled up in sunlight you're
clawing to leave. Sometimes I can't tell
if you're purring or shrieking.
You're a domesticated cat who will not stop
hunting yet your bowl has never been empty."

That night, I dreamt about cats.
I dreamt about cats yawning and cats
bolting from open doorways.
I dreamt about cats with their ears being
scratched and cats getting smooshed
beneath tires.

And in the dream I heard the voice
of one of my dead relatives:
"Dogs love people. Cats love places."

I woke up remembering the couch, the day.
I remembered his presence in the room,
how his words pressed on like a rolling
pin; how it had felt enchanting,
like I was in another country—
a country littered with silos and tulips
consuming entire meadows, in a country
I'd never been to.

And because I've never really
traveled (my family always went camping)
I find the idea of exploration
terrifying

so that when I wander,
I sink, and dart
and when I love, I drift

maniacally shifting between
taking photograph after photograph
and then—where's my parachute?—
abandoning.

(You are the loveliest foreign language
and I need a Romance to Amanda dictionary.)

.