In my dreams Jiro Horikoshi did not make fighter planes
He only made paper planes
bearing sappy sonnets
that flew over to Naoko Satomi
when she acquired tuberculosis
He did not just imagine meeting her again in the meadows
he stayed at bedside
folded origami delicately
as she heaved her last breath
He designed 3D planes
that magically transport bodies
to where the wind rises
as Naoko paints their pretty portraits
He did not just oppose futile wars in his diary
he made plane-shaped letters
mailed them to the Empire
with a HELL NO
People did not cheer for a film
somewhat celebrating tools of annihilation
and I was not clapping with them
before I knew it was based on a true story
In my dreams Jiro Horikoshi did not make fighter planes
that bombed Pearl Harbor
brought them soldiers to my home
and killed my people
My cat is not Baron Humbert von Gikkingen
We call him Cotton.
Plump, fluffy, and white as Muta.
He is a snob that hates cuddling. Gave me the dirty eye
whenever I lifted him in my arms. A cold grump like Muta.
He was friends with me
only when hungry. Still after feeding, he gobbled up an entire spread
the way Muta drowned himself in pink jello.
He avoided and pawed my other cats like he’s a king,
and they were servants. Quite condescending – just like Muta.
I gave Cotton away to a friend
and kept my brown tabby cat, Pogi. That’s Filipino for handsome, which he is.
Dapper and classy, like Baron Humbert von Gikkingen.
Pogi springs up to my legs even when not called. Bunts my face
and likes to snuggle in my arms like a fetus.
Cleans other cats at first meet. Purrs when feeding, grateful for every morsel.
Smart and friendly – like Baron.
When I remember Cotton, Pogi is kneading my arms,
his sharp claws sinking into my sore skin. I let him.
But I also think sometimes you just want a Muta
that doesn’t interrupt Zoom meetings. Or does not get colds
because he can’t keep himself from friend-licking stray cats’ dripping noses.
A cat who won’t jump on your lap, paws wet, for a pat
while you’re sleeping and dreaming
of a white cat that leaves you to it
when you want to be left alone.
Gretchen is a writer of poems and creative nonfiction. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Rappler, Philippines Free Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, Rejection Lit, The Alien Buddha, Maudlin House, Janus Literary, and elsewhere. She resides in the Philippines with her daughter, kooky cats, and dogs. Say hi on Twitter @gretchenfilart.