ISSUE 5 · FALL 2010
The Cat and the Fiddle
Why scrub dishes with a sponge when I can rub
your sharp left shoulder’s blade? The china
does not moan at me as I cradle it in one hand
and circle my freer fingers in its grooves,
coaxing out the oils and crumbs—not like you do.
Tomorrow we may be hit by a Chevy.
Our blood may ooze
over the plate of pavement like syrup spilling down
pancakes, without the time to even regret not licking
the sweet maple of our skin, huffing the laughter,
and leaving lip prints in the sweat.
And the dishes—
let them eat take-out and stay up all night,
watching the cow clip her hooves on the moon.
Lisa Grove grew up amid the bluffs and dairy farms of Wisconsin and under the gray skies of Michigan. She currently lives in San Diego where she works as a teaching associate for SDSU and as a contributing editor for Poetry International. Her poetry has been anthologized in Pandemonium and The Writers’ Collective Anthology and is forthcoming in Hummingbird Magazine.