ISSUE 5 · FALL 2010




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Copyright © 2010

Lisa Grove





The Cat and the Fiddle

LISA GROVE



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.