and my pumpkin cat is sitting in the sun.
How does she know how to fold
herself into the windowís square ligatures,
or drape over the one piece of furniture
that best shows off her amber eyes? I want
to be this cat, have nothing more to do
than follow the sun around the house
all day, let its heat warm my fur, my bones.
I donít need to think about hunger; soon,
shredded chicken or tuna will appear
in my bowl. I donít care that night
is coming, dark as a cauldron. I donít know
some day Iíll die. Someoneís switched
on the fire; the room turns all flicker and light.
My tail twitches, my claws retract. A low
slow rumble begins in my chest,
blooms into a furious flower.
~Barbara Crooker

poems online



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