Poetry, Cat Dixon
What if I say I’ve broken my leg
and it won’t heal, which will cause
my gait to resemble a child
playing at the floor is lava,
which will require a cane,
and then a walker, and finally
a scooter? You’ll say that’s not
too bad—you’re still getting around,
and I’ll have to shrug and sigh,
but what if I told you my spirit’s
broken which causes me to snap,
to slam doors, to vibrate
like a string held too taut, to lose
sleep, to drink too much,
to fantasize about death whenever
the TV or music is shut
off? What if I told you
I’ve fallen down a deep
well and there’s no getting
back up? What if I told you
I tried for 30 years, and finally
I’m ready, but my hands are hooves,
and without a trigger finger,
I’m forced to request this favor?
When you love something—
a dog, a cat, a horse—you don’t
allow it to suffer. You care too
much, so when the vet says this
is what’s best, you complete
the necessary paperwork,
and you select the trinkets—
their paws in clay, their ashes
placed in a tiny urn around
your neck or the mantelpiece
with their bronzed food and water
dishes. Pour my remains in
a pinot noir bottle. Replace
the label with a photo of me—
30, thin, long straight black hair,
wearing a tight black dress—
picture me there.
Cat Dixon is the author of What Happens in Nebraska (Stephen F. Austin University Press, 2022) along with six other poetry chapbooks and collections. She is a poetry editor with The Good Life Review. Recent poems published in Thimble Lit Mag, Poor Ezra’s Almanac, and Moon City Review.
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