CL Bledsoe

My Best Friend Is Turning Into a Cat.

Days collect like soot on our shoulders, thickening
until nothing new can penetrate. I’m afraid
the sadness will wrap him in a bag and throw him
off a bridge. When the heat death of the universe
comes, at least we’ll finally be warm. There are many
names for love, but none of them can be spoken
with a mouth full of Doritos, which is maybe a kind
of love, itself. The faces of the dead fade just like
anything else. Sometimes I wish I’d done great
evil so this shame would make sense. What I did
was save myself. Just because everything
is obvious doesn’t mean it makes sense.

© CL Bledsoe

CL Bledsoe’s most recent poetry collections are Trashcans in Love and King of Loneliness. His most recent novel is The Funny Thing About… . Originally from a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter. He blogs, with Michael Gushie, at

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