The Chackocat

Worlds are altered rather than destroyed. –Democritus

The window is slightly open.

I try and try to slam it shut,

  so nothing can come in and hurt me.

But on the outside ledge

  there is a small mountain lion

  with its paw already through the crack.

Claws tangle in my braid

tangle in my chenille sweater.

There’s no help for it.

So I let him burst through the crack

leap into my arms

or across my shoulders.

I stroke him. He is a Chackocat.

He goes limp in my arms,

touches my face with a soft, clawless paw

his footpad like human skin against my forehead.

I have the distinct sensation that he is saying,

“I told you so,”

  that he, in cahoots with the women in the kitchen,

  has been trying to teach me some lesson

  about trust.

We're never left alone within the colorless walls --
  there's the eternally vegetative matriarch
  or her unwelcome elder sibling. 

Besides, my best friend's father keeps his illegitimate family

  sequestered off the back hallway.

(Why oh why do my dreams

  always include a reason for restraint?)

Even so, the situation is too inviting to ignore.

For a second, he becomes a dictionary.

I know how to titillate a dictionary.

Page 194, second column, toward the middle,

  or if you prefer, try 439.

But it is the Chackocat, not the dictionary

  who knows how to reach me.

(Cats don't have much competition

when it comes to artistry of the tongue.)

* * *

In the morning,

  I tamp down a sloping snowbank

  with my beige boot.

In the powdery solid snow

  I feel the furry firm

  flank of the Chackocat.