Nooie

Tsitsi Ella Jaji

I spy on him, my riddle of flocked polyester. White wood pickets his dreams. Tender, one, hopper, five the prettiest blue – glitching in drowsy chorus. He thieves constantly. So only he and I know whether his grey blanket is his grey blanket or mine, a filch or an open secret. At night his friends crowd in. I think: I should know them by now. But where his form ends and theirs begins is a mystery that tickles me. Did donkey make it up stairs? Did Teddymouse? How he loves these lumps of cloth, muffling and muzzling them through the night. How he delights in their surfeit of softness. I give in to my phone. You could say that I scrap books for real time. If I cracked the door open, he would catch me gocking. This way he is none the wiser. I indulge, the luxury of his lashes drapes the knowing mirror of my love. Nothing short of drowning in myself approached this. December 6-10, 2020