StarCat/CatStar

Caroline
By Ben Finateri
You tell me you have the body of an old street cat.
I look at you next to me on the bed, lying on your back, naked;
"I don't see it," I say.
"No," you tell me, "Look.
My skin is wizened, leathery, tan and tough."
You trace a finger over the scar on your knee,
move your hand over the scars on your legs and stomach and breasts
and the one on your chin.
"My body is worn," you tell me. "Stressed and torn.
I have been hit, kicked, chased, cut, bruised, broken.
I have fallen and not always landed on my feet.
Time, and the elements, have taken their toll."
You roll your shoulders forward and back.
"Look," you tell me. "My injuries have earned me a free-floating clavicle.
Maybe I can squeeze through tiny spaces."
You smile your Cheshire grin and roll onto your stomach.
"You know," you tell me, "the old street cat masks her injuries.
She ignores the paresthesia and pain in her neck;
she forgets the cysts growing around her sacroiliac joint,
the burning down her leg.
She must in order to survive.
But look, you'll see."
You place your hands flat on the bed, and push up, lift your chest,
raise up onto your knees. Your joints crack, and yes,
you have a tiny paunch belly,
but you arch your back, let your head fall to your navel.
You breathe, straighten your back, lift your head.
You inhale, exhale, and return to your stomach.
You tell me, "Like the old street cat
I have not lost the desire to run, to jump, to hunt.
Rather than wither and starve, I've kept my body moving, active.
But look: the winging scapula caused by the stretched thoracic nerve;
the bulging discs, the degeneration at C5 and C6,
the seratus weakened from trauma."