A New Year's Day

A crash wakes me from sleep,

makeup and alcohol still clinging

from the new year. Trotsky,

wretched uncoordinated furball,

has broken a gift given by somebody

I love. Shards everywhere and

he dares to meow obliviously.

No! I say. No no no! and the more

I shout it, the less he understands.

His small pink nose sniffs at the

fragments I gather to my heart, he

whines for affection my hangover

cannot afford. I turn away, throw

on sunglasses and a coat for a

5-hour walk. My breath comes

as tiny clouds crystallizing in frigid

morning air. They say as a baby,

I demanded insomnia from others

sleeping soundly on the stomachs of

those who loved me. The household

was on constant rotation duty, their

steady breath up in lulling me

breath down out to sleep breath

up in while they lay awake and

still breath down out afraid to

move or wake me. I breathe out

and watch my huff puff pause

evaporate reluctantly into the air.

Later, Trotsky will curl clumsily

in my lap, surveying my mood

for forgiveness. His breath will be

soft and deep, his paws between

my thighs, and we will fall asleep

together like this. Broken shards

will get tossed the morning after.