(This poem had a mind of its own and refused regimentation into any kind of lines. It simply plopped down and turned itself into a prose poem. I think I’ll call it Spot as in “out damn.”)
I decline to like you. Refuse to sniff the sweet warm rising bread dough smell of your slender neck concentrating on the ugly little brown stain that marked you behind the ear at birth, branding you into a hereditary tangle so bizarre its labyrinthine history resembles a Byzantine family plot. Still, your eyes – so violet in artificial light – your pouty fractal lips that follow precisely the lovely bell-curve of your breasts – might offer compensation if not for the strange way you never altogether undress; some article of clothing forever clings – not always in the same place – ruling out a tail, say, or patches of unsightly hair? It worries me and I might say farewell for good if ivory claws did not close quite so tightly round my wrist. I fear you swallow mice.