My ex-partner profited off the Napoleonic Wars.
They insisted that their shoelaces were tied.
Their moon was the size of a pair of blue eagles
And they couldn’t construct a proper cheesecake.
I sat and listened to their droning about Neptune,
Felt their long whiskers pat me on the back
As if I could afford to drink ginger tea.
Their dog whistled sweet nothings into the void.
Everyone loved them except for you.
You didn’t know how to play the triangle.
That’s why I left them for your house of books.
Don’t you understand? They were an octopus,
And you were always seventeen minutes away
From the pit of an avocado’s frustration.
This is a reprint of work originally published in The Opiate.
Catherine B. Krause is a queer, disabled, and polyamorous transgender lunatic living in Niagara Falls, NY. Her poetry appeared in Eunoia Review in 2014 and has also appeared in Rabbit Ears: TV Poems, The Opiate, and The Lake, among other places.