Everyday Cat Hair and Snags
The year I scalded every
feeling I had for you down my
throat with Moroccan mint tea,
because I was (and will always be)
a little more than what is allowed
to be loved, I quickly learned,
like a chess player, to look
for the move that is ten turns
beyond where we are in the
moment. It feels like preservation now
and ultimately far more
important than it actually is. I miss
the boots I wore that year, the comforting
sound of heel click on the sidewalk
outside your window. The act
of getting somewhere. Crucial.
What I know should happen now
will be disrupted. By everything
I am not. And never quite crucial enough.
I find it compelling that you have
two identical tablecloths—
one for good, you say, and one
for everyday cat hair and snags.
I tell you what a great title
that would be for a poem. I think about
the word snag for hours. Its sound
a midwestern nasally stop. A snag is
what happens when you try so hard to
keep something for good. Only the promise
of human error and spills,
when what you thought you
kept so safe, so protected and close
finds itself gravy-stained. Just a little.
Jen Rouse is the author of five books of poetry: A Trickle of Bloom Becomes You, Riding with Anne Sexton, CAKE, Acid & Tender, and Fragments of V. She received a 2024 Elizabeth Kostova fellowship to the International Poetry Conference in Bulgaria. Her most recent poetry appears in Sweet Literary, Moist Poetry Journal, Lavender Review, and in The Cities of the Plains: An Anthology of Iowa Artists and Poets. Rouse directs the Center for Teaching and Learning at Cornell College.
