a poem by Roger B. Rueda
The audacity! Every night,
as if the dark itself split open—
two streaks of black silk
glide beneath my doorframe,
shoulders twitching, tails
curling like wisps of incense.
They do not belong to me.
And yet—
they arrive with the confidence
of men who’ve made up their minds.
Their emerald eyes catch
the moon’s pale reach,
gleaming like wet sea glass
held too long in the palm.
They weave through my legs,
tracing figure eights on bare shins,
their purrs low and steady—
the sound of a car engine idling
on an empty street.
Then, as if rehearsed,
they leap with the grace
of something holy
onto my bed,
claiming its center
like it remembers them.
At first, I laugh—
but then one presses its face
into the soft dip of my neck,
another plants a kiss
just below the eye,
its nose cold,
its breath warm
with the scent of dusk.
Their love, unasked for,
is shameless.
Meanwhile,
my own cats—dignified as duchesses—
appear only
at the sacred clang of kibble
in a ceramic bowl.
They eat like royalty
and leave without goodbyes,
tails lifting in practiced disdain,
each flick a full sentence:
You are not needed for anything
but nourishment.
I ask the air,
soft with fur and questions:
Is it something in this building—
a mineral in the pipes,
an aura in the hallway—
that breeds detachment?
Or have I stumbled
into the paws
of a secret society
of velvet-footed wanderers
who cross thresholds
in search of warmth
the way others search for meaning?
Tonight,
I’ll leave a plate of tuna by the door,
not for the ones I feed,
but for those who choose me
without asking
and love
without needing to.
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