The Meadow 109 We all have a heat Natasha Pepperl We all have a vice we keep circling as house cats hunt for an opening to squeeze through. Maybe it’s meaty as a person or thin as a folded letter. Maybe it’s the cigar box buried in your nightstand so when your fingers burn with the melancholy of being human you can remind yourself of your halves. Tonight, you planted iris sprouts under the full moon. Palms pressing the dirt and exposed roots remind you of your recently dead, which remind you of a letter writer, maybe bare-ankled and kicking dust up the mountain range running across state lines through both your hometowns. Maybe it’s each sadness must burrow warmly in you or another and all that’s left at the end of this day is your cats curled in the hallway, the howls of coyotes surrounding their kill, a shadow dragging across the floor in search of heat.
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