I Don’t Know Why You Still Care, But Do You?
(question asked by Grace Welch)

I remember you putting the cat out before sex,
her marbled fur like stained chalk-
board erasers in your hands
as she looked up at you &, I’m sure,
thought, This again? You closed the door
as if shutting out the turning back.
I, in my youthful trembling,
recognized the promise there.
You lit candles & incense
(vanilla, orange blossom, jasmine).
We smoked a joint. Mazzy Star
played depressive yearning on your stereo.
How could I, looking back, deny
the seed of permanence rooting?
Cat, candle, scent, stare.
I return always to the start
like a sunrise over memory’s jaded hills,
ready to warm you & wake you again
in the catless, doorless place
where you now live.









Ace Boggess is the author of two books of poetry: The Prisoners and The Beautiful Girl Whose Wish Was Not Fulfilled. His writing has appeared in Harvard Review, Mid-American Review, Rattle, River Styx, North Dakota Quarterly, among other journals. He lives in Charleston, West Virginia.