Is a poem a song? I do
not hear the singing of it;
an intonation; there’s
My poem is like that, a bird
talking another animal language.
An ancient tongue mired in peanut butter trying
the task of the clean-limbed Greeks;
orators in practice: rocks.
We also watched several times the video of
the barking cat, and
you told me then that cats don’t even
meow in cat-life; it’s a baby-talk they do
for humans, because we’re
calamitous kittens, lumbering madly and madly
in control of the kibble. To speak
to each other we imitate
each other’s imitations. You put
a hand to the back of my neck
and said, It stops hiccups. I leaned
Copyright © Dawn Macdonald
Dawn Macdonald lives in Whitehorse, Yukon, where she was raised off the grid. She holds a degree in applied mathematics and used to know a lot about infinite series. Her poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in FOLIO, Grain, Room, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Understorey, and Vallum.