Love is to hold
the legs, not the hands;
to search for them,
and upon discovery
make them your enemy,
your opposing force.
Love is the cunning
cat, who licks at your
feet, offers you
a sandpaper stroke.
It feels so gritty,
but you like it.
After all, love is to
like it always, to wake
up to the kindling
of your own ribs;
the peculiar sound
of morning, or mourning,
echoing within, desire
as deep as weeds
who cry alongside
the trees, who long
to be swallowed
by the animal.
Katherine MacCue is a graduate of the George Washington University. Her poetry has been published in RiverLit, Stone Highway Review, and she has forthcoming work in The Writing Disorder. She can be found at http://kvmacc.blogspot.com.
