Pool Party

Down the street, a house is flying
an oversized thin blue line flag.
Instead of mentioning the neighbors,
you talk local elections,
pool maintenance, moving house.
There’s a drowning wasp-thing
'til somebody braver than you
scoops it onto the lawn.
You squeeze a pool noodle
for something to do with your hands,
bob around the above-ground
like a sun-blocked hippopotamus.
Climbing out is harder than expected.
On the deck you can’t stand.
The wood hurts your knees.
Water drips down your ass.
You try to get up once, twice.
You’re fat. You’re heavy and tired.
You sit on the ground because you must.
You listen to the kids playing next door,
to your friends’ conversation.
(Twice, in their yard, they’ve seen a fox.)
You are now several You’s, each one
cultivating a different attitude
about the current predicament.
One of You thinks it’s funny.
A dramatic You wants to die alone,
consumed by fungus in the woods.
A hopeful You asks for help,
though assistance doesn't work,
as a cynical You suspected.
Archivist You catalogs the times
something like this happened before.
Physical You has to pee.
American You wants to pretend
nothing's wrong. She keeps exclaiming,
to nobody, isn't it such a beautiful day!

catching the end of the terminator on cable

there’s an armchair i especially like in my living room.
     it’s good because it swivels. i can face the tv;
the sofa opposite. i can look out the window
     at the street. an ad for ozempic. yes, i have spoken

with my doctor, am the owner of a prescription
     i haven’t filled. two small dogs squeeze into the chair
with me. the old cat, too, when she drags herself up
     and over the arm into the gap at my back. sometimes

all four of us sit in the chair together. seems comfortable
     for everyone but me. there’s an ad for a news show.
there are three car commercials. the terminator
     is hit by a truck. still, he’s coming. i have a tv tray

for my laptop and a cold beverage. occasionally,
     i wear headphones. this chair is where i do my work.
where my world mostly is. on sunny days i walk
     my block, as far as my lower back will let me. other days

my husband drives us to the diner, or to the movies.
     do you remember when it felt like anything was shiny?
there’s an ad reminding me to create a will. i visit
     its website. the terminator is crushed in a hydraulic press.

The Bedtime Bird

I’ve never seen an airplane
I didn’t feel responsible
for holding up.

I was an anxious child.
Now I’m an adult who measures
life in lengths of road.

Today I saw an old friend—
the friendship old, us only
fortyish. We sat on the porch

and kept proclaiming
The world is bullshit! But isn't the world
such beautiful bullshit?

Some days I want to quit
feeling the sunlight on my legs.
Yeah, I’d cure cancer, if I could,

because at heart I’m alright.
But I’ll probably just get cancer,
struggle with living for a time.

Outside my window, a thrush.
God, I’m so tired
of knowing I’m going to die.

What if no more emails?
I just send a final Yes! No worries!
Thanks so much! and See you then!  





Catherine Weiss (they/she) is a poet and artist from Maine, currently 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. Their book Wolf Girls vs Horse Girls was a finalist for the Maine Literary Award for Poetry in 2022. Catherine was also the 2017 Grand Slam Champion of Northampton Poetry and has competed nationally. 

Website | Twitter | Bluesky | Instagram