Body of a Cat

Sa Whitley

Named for the god

of the motorcycle underworld,

Harley’s belly revs up

like a two-cylinder piston

engine when I touch her.

She makes the most of me

when I arrive home from work

with my Satyr’s tail between my dress

pants. Gender Studies (am I right?)

in a world that runs on gallons

of cheap violence. Lately,

I don’t know who I am

writing for. The curve in the road,

another place to talk dirty

& be godless. The wind

in our black hair is the music

of the lesser gods, & we real

cool but ride or die in different octaves.

I am learning the calligraphy

of clawed beings.

Sitting on the porch, we pour

one out for the homies

who ain’t here, endangered

species of the genus Homo.

Imagine the punch-drunk possibilities

of living nine transcendent lives

in a damn good wig &

the hiss of high-heeled refusal.