by Jenny Morelli
There’s an image in my window who does not sink or swim, just sits and hovers, floats and stares, and my cat stares back, undeterred and with a righteousness only cats can pull off.
There’s an image in my window, who remains unfazed, just flickering and fading and flipping from a him to a her to a them, to a when and a where; flip-flip as the sky darkens and lightens into liquid crystals that change with one’s mood or one’s touch, warm to cold, happy to sad, here to there, then to now.
There's an image in my window who sways with the wind, diaphanous as the devil, lugubrious as a lupine’s how; melancholy and masterful, she weaves worlds like webs that stick and cling, fogging the glass into frost that may one day reveal answers.
Who are you? I ask this unknown force shape-shifting in my webbed window.
Her lips move without sound like she’s trapped in some sadness.
She extends her arm and I reach out to pull her free from her eternal eclipse, from her levitating limbo, but instead of grabbing hold, she points to me, then disappears, clearing the window to reveal just me and my lucid loneliness; the distant city inside my mind, the house without a house, those worlds within worlds that spiral into infinity.
Jenny Morelli is a NJ high school English teacher who lives with her husband, cat, and myriad yard pets. She seeks inspiration in everything around her. She’s published in several literary magazines including Red Rose Thorns, Spillwords, Scars tv. This is her fourth poetry chapbook with Bottlecap Press. Check out her website for more: JennyMorelliWrites.com
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