D. R. Wormack
This poem was originally published in the Fall 2022 issue of Cherry Bomb Literary Magazine here.
CW: The following poem contains mature content including sexual themes and obscene language.
“Why don’t you come home with me tonight?
Why don’t you grab the cock between my legs, twist the night away, tucked
Tight in your bed tonight?
Why don’t you smile—girl?
Why don’t you curl your lips around my
Hips and mold your mouth to mine, girl?”
Because when you walk, you bounce two basketballs on your chest.
The cats shoot their shot on your body like a backboard.
Try to play a pick-up game on your court, your home, your basket, your brea--
The game where they love a girl that can ball.
Where coach taught you to shoot.
Where the target was the hoop.
Where you own the shot, it doesn’t own you.
Where the court had control.
Where you were a forward, their hands moving forward.
Wear sports bras to keep your front forward.
Because Victoria shared all your secrets when she became point
Guard in the concrete jungle, the cat calls street rules.
“Ma got the fatty.
Why don’t you jump through the open window of my car, some pillow talk and
Cigars, with that fatty?
Damn, why do you look so angry?
Evil eyes while I make you burn from the inside out.
Slide it in your mouth, if you’re so angry.”
Put on your longest leaves to hide the tree trunks.
The same ones that gave way to the torso
Bearing your forbidden fruits.
The same ones that tempted Adam, not Eve.
Shield cat claws from climbing up
Mother’s most natural being.
Bind the base in thick fabric of many layers.
Duct taped down—like a gift-wrapped bicycle
The curves still show through. Sculpted. Denim bows to the shape of your hips
Granting the gallery a peak of marble underneath the sheer curtain
Chiseled by Michelangelo’s hands. Meant to be seen. Nothing left to the imagination
Except the fat you squeeze in the mirror which the cats seem to eat.
“Yeah, I’m a slut.
I bet you could be one too if you put your hands down my
Pants. Come dance with me, slut.
Man, I like that.
Slip this whisper in your ear as I hug you from behind and
Fuck you like that.”
‘How you doing tonight?’ would have been alright
If cat eyes didn’t undress you from the top down.
Always top down. They want your top down. Hips down.
Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.
Like the hook to a rap song you used to like until
The party hands materialized as paws,
Pulling your top down.
To stop them, you call—
Legs. Ring, ring. Butt. Ring, ring. Arms. Ring, ring. Breasts. Ring, ring. Face. Ring, ring. Body.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
…
They seldom answer.
But when the cat calls…
Fatty. Sexy. Ass. Hey ma. Come home with me. Slut. Those tits. Beautiful, make my night.
…
When the cat calls,
“How you doing ma’am? Ma’am? Ma’am?
Sweetheart?
Bitch. Don’t I sound sincere?
Don’t you understand it’s an honor to be called here?
Sorry to bother YOU.”
There’s no church in the wild but it sounds like preaching.
The cats teaching you to be thankful for this holy attention.
You’ve been selected for salivation.
When the cat calls you, your body answers.
Tries to run, to change, lock the femineity away.
Cover your butt, your legs. Close your thighs.
Cross your arms. Scrunch your face. Hide your eyes.
Your poker face is a brisk walk, sweaty pits, frantic hands, fleeting cries
Inside your tall stalk, swaying hips, busty dance, orgasmic eyes.
And you crawl onto the late bus as the toms slink by,
Wishing to have never heard the howling of an alley cat’s call.
2022.
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