POEM: "Cat's Cradle"

Cat's Cradle

How long did the moment last

when we played cat's cradle for hours
while it rained. It's not string theory
it's the twisting of long white string
in the dance in our hands, halting
one form before it becomes the next

How we shaped our agreement
with only a suggested movement
of struggling beauty. Inevitable that
this old cradle would have our soul
pick one here and stretch one there
the cats were fingers that held it all

Errant topology, scattered maps
lost directions, a stuttering of tears
foot-on-accelerator, foot-on-brake
took us to unexpected places. But no
the invisible games we played were
unseemly too. And they were as futile

As writing a novel about scissors. But it
seemed like we’d be wed forever and our
clothes washed together for 30 years. Well
the cats cradled with the big knife next to
the hammer. With the old hammer next to
the matches. With the matches next to you.


© 2014 Rob Schackne