Infidelity Blas Falconer

In the flashing light of an otherwise dark club,

in the charged air (so the tiny hairs tremble),

one of us kissed a man. That wasn’t the point.

In our own stone house the dog caught the cat

and carried him in his mouth. For days

you wouldn’t look but thought, He swung

him side to side, the floor covered with fur.

You wipe the counters clean, dry your hands

on the back of your jeans. Swimming laps, I think

of him and go under, of before, the small joys

accumulating each day, adding to what was there.

So much fur, I didn’t think there could be

so much fur. I ran my hand the length of him,

noting no hum of life, the tip of his pale tongue,

and where the bite broke the skin—the lungs

filled up with blood. I slip the box on the shelf,

hear the ashes shift and know how fine they are.

He licks the salt from my palm. He rolls

onto his back, and I stroke his tender belly.

We didn’t think he had it in him. We stay put.

We lie side by side. We wait and wonder.

While he sleeps, we hear the body rise and fall.