A Poem by Jessica Traynor

Becoming Schrödinger’s Cat

Consider me a cat as I run away from you
into Vantablack. All cats look grey at night
and all women might be saying yes or at least thinking it.
They might be yes-ing and no-ing at the same time.
I said no, and you called me a cunt.
Recast the word as cat, watch me melt into the alley. 
Cats vanish all the time and we think nothing of it –
it’s their prerogative to be mysterious
even if that dusting of power is what gets them thrown on bonfires 
or strung up as the year thins towards famine.
As the sound of your shout dies in your throat
and anger shrivels to an apple-core in your gullet,
imagine me locked in a box.
Keep me there, safe in the knowledge 
that I’m both alive and dead.

Jessica Traynor is a Dublin poet, essayist and librettist whose first collection, Liffey Swim (Dedalus Press), was shortlisted for the Strong/Shine Award. Her second, The Quick, was a 2019 Irish Times Poetry Choice. Her third, Pit Lullabies, is forthcoming from Bloodaxe in 2022.