Tateneni, "Valentine for Amy"

Today my mind wanders to a time I was pet-sitting,
to Valentine, a small, black cat who followed me
all day through the house. A silent mass,

she floated up and down the stairs after me
as I did the chores—litter box, fresh water—
and when I went to feed the dog, she continued

to keep watch from the kitchen counter.
The dog tapped out his rhythmic dance on the tiled flor.
She sat still as if to say how much more there is to life

than feeding, drinking, or walks around the block.
When I reached out to stroke her, she withdrew
just out of reach, her eyes wide open, fixed on my face.

It snowed all of that day, and I cannot say why
my heart hung heavy. After walking the dog,
I fell asleep in the armchair watching television.

I dreamed of falling. Common enough, you’d say, and yet,
it seemed interminable, the aching to sound out the bottom,
the shortness of breath. I opened my eyes in surprise

to find Valentine on my chest, drawing her small breath,
sending insistent, earthly tremors through my body.
When I put my hand on her, I felt those vibrations

running in my fingers. Today, I want to hold you,
feel the weight of your body against mine. I want to sing
of loneliness and warmth, of irresistible change.

Instead, I dream of falling, into some void where all lost souls
end up. Here, beneath the lowest layer of dream, they lie,
lovers locked in eternal, insubstantial embrace.




Krishna Tateneni