In the front row, audience members maybe encouraged to participate.
I hear the taut—snap—of fibers
of course, it’s my favorite chair
A *pop*pop*pop* as Dotdot looks
right into my indignant eyes and
recitals her claws’ symphonic capacities.
“Stop clawing my chair, there are better ways to get attention,”
my voice warbling in the way of some unmet ancestor.
(The accent always strongest when corrective—it is a
Damning
bit of legacy.)
I remember just
how many of us
have been told,
“you’re doing that for attention”
—we, the weary, the
so. goddamn. tired.
testing any claw in the cabinet, deep
into the upholstery of our own shins
and forearms.
As if attention weren’t a lifeline.
As if we were only meant belonging when we’re good girls.
“Hello, sweet baby,” I sing, I pat
my lap, a mirror to that
melody set upon the surface of my chair
It’s just a chair.
I can mend it with
beautiful compositions of embroidery and
not wait for time to heal
it over into
ghosts of lightning on
taught skin.
This concert is both
audience and performer. She joins me, here,
(a gorgeous bit of crowdwork)
rakes her wet teeth, gentle
across my fingers to lead them
to attend the soft folds where ears meet
skull, my claws reaching soft where
she most often wishes
the validation of touch.
