Texas

We moved in February, left all the cars parked along on E 11th street, lumps under Manhattan snow. Rented a McMansion in the ‘burbs, filling the carpeted bedrooms up with unauthorized subletting roommates. Jake joined a band, which played covers of John Mayer songs and Wagon Wheel at bars in Austin and Shreveport. Jake, who played cello and didn’t love me anymore. None of us had jobs. I volunteered in the back office of the humane society where I was chastised for investigating petty cash thievery of another volunteer. I adopted a fluffy white puppy. I didn’t write a screenplay. By June it was too hot to walk barefoot on pavement. I tried to be good. I tried so hard  to make it work. Before Texas, I didn’t know dogs could scream.

Catherine Weiss is a poet and artist living in Western Massachusetts. Their poetry has been published in BOMB, Sixth Finch, Tinderbox, DIAGRAM, Up the Staircase, Fugue, and Taco Bell Quarterly. Catherine is the author of three poetry collections, most recently Big Money Porno Mommy, from Game Over Books in 2025. More at catherineweiss.com.