a poem by Roger B. Rueda
Is it insanity, this urge
to touch her as her mother did—
as if I could remember her birth,
as if the scent of milk and blood
belonged also to me?
I stroke her flank and feel
the vibration of trust,
that peculiar stillness before the purr,
and I wonder—
what if she thinks me divine?
What if she believes I hung the sun
outside the window
just so her naps could be lit?
She is fur and secret,
eyes like polished marbles
that do not judge,
only gaze—
into me, into the fog of my thoughts,
as if she sees the boredom
tucked beneath the chores,
the loneliness unspoken
in the morning toast.
I kiss her head.
A ridiculous thing.
A human thing.
And she blinks slowly,
as if to say
do it again.
Is this not love?
To imagine what she feels
when she curls,
tail wrapped like a question
I will never answer.
Sometimes,
her small voice pierces the air,
a mewl, a demand,
a ghost of her mother’s call
or a sound she makes
just to remind me
we are two creatures
alone together.
She swipes at the curtain
and I laugh—
so sudden, so savage,
so alive.
Her mischief is a flame
licking at the edges of my melancholy.
I hold her
and think of madness,
the sweet kind
that smells of fur and sleep.
The kind that heals.
The kind that saves.
And if I am mad,
then let me stay mad.
For there is nothing in this world
as sane
as love dressed in whiskers.
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