she had learned that
if she beheld him as if in a sphere suspended
in the middle of where only she could
touch him he would always give forth
his smiles mattered little to her
as did his frowns his need to shit or to piss
but she fed him because he was hungry
death of her subject meant
death of her dissertation
she stroked him
only whenever she wanted to which occurred
only when she remembered him
he should have thought about that before
he broke into her house
he thought it was his turn
for money and a good time
instead
it will be a snowy summer in calcutta before
she’ll let him go
she’ll publish first perhaps
then she’ll bury him
Eric Robinson appeared previously in the spring 2023 issue of J Journal, with his poems “Juba” and “New Rochelle.” He is now retired from university teaching.
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