Body of a Cat
By Sa Whitley
(cadavere di un gatto)
After Yusef Komunyakaa
Named for the god
of the motorcycle underworld,
Harley’s belly revs up
like a two-cylinder piston
engine when I touch her.
She makes the most of me
when I arrive home from work
with my Satyr’s tail between my dress
pants. Gender Studies (am I right?)
in a world that runs on gallons
of cheap violence. Lately,
I don’t know who I am
writing for. The curve in the road,
another place to talk dirty
& be godless. The wind
in our black hair is the music
of the lesser gods, & we real
cool but ride or die in different octaves.
I am learning the calligraphy
of clawed beings.
Sitting on the porch, we pour
one out for the homies
who ain’t here, endangered
species of the genus Homo.
Imagine the punch-drunk possibilities
of living nine transcendent lives
in a damn good wig &
the hiss of high-heeled refusal.
