Grimalkin
0926.2012
When I was young I’d creep
Silver and sinuous beneath the sun,
My backbone curving quietly
With a meandering posture,
Then swinging to and from without concern,
My mother taught me survival was to shift
In small fast arrangements that played
Upon my feet in a toccata and fugue,
And that time was a virtue.
The trees would gather me into their hands,
Lifting me to their breasts where sometimes
I’d drape lazily in their arms, sleeping
Gone the entire day with the sun’s light
Dusting my pelt and warming my
Skeleton, which seemed to quickly age.
I became friends with sparrows and doves,
Learning their strategy and society
So they could become familiar
And comfortable in my presence,
Then when I had to finish one (regretfully)
I’d express gratitude for my life,
Sure to not desecrate the delicate breasts and wings,
Until my tongue burnished their bones ivory.
Now I bask wearily, dreaming
Of balled silk arranged in a basket upon
My mistress’s rocking chair,
Buttermilk given during autumn days,
And human hands fussing upon my coat,
That with the first snowfall grows thick.
(And I could speak to you of my fur,
Of its promise and purpose,
The calm and serene moments
And its lowered demands,
Of the machine in my throat
Running smooth with contentment
As fingers frolic upon it.)
I also remember the handsome Tom
Sitting upon my window,
Then my six children fastened to me,
Their paws dancing upon my breasts
To stir the creamy milk -
And I remember
Soon after the hurry to hunt returning,
Usually a mouse or lizard,
All tokens of my affection and gratitude -
Sitting at my mistress’s feet.
Now these days some fire in my gilded
Eyes dims day by day, and my stature trembles
Falling left or right as a towel is laid out
To soften the plummet of bones tired and frail.
There’s usually a temperate quietness,
Where shameless with indignant self-respect,
I practically breathe my last,
When my eyes spark just one more moment -
And though humanized,
I’m not at all human (as if I wish to be)
But in all sincerity,
a cat.
Marni De Ambershay
0926.2012
When I was young I’d creep
Silver and sinuous beneath the sun,
My backbone curving quietly
With a meandering posture,
Then swinging to and from without concern,
My mother taught me survival was to shift
In small fast arrangements that played
Upon my feet in a toccata and fugue,
And that time was a virtue.
The trees would gather me into their hands,
Lifting me to their breasts where sometimes
I’d drape lazily in their arms, sleeping
Gone the entire day with the sun’s light
Dusting my pelt and warming my
Skeleton, which seemed to quickly age.
I became friends with sparrows and doves,
Learning their strategy and society
So they could become familiar
And comfortable in my presence,
Then when I had to finish one (regretfully)
I’d express gratitude for my life,
Sure to not desecrate the delicate breasts and wings,
Until my tongue burnished their bones ivory.
Now I bask wearily, dreaming
Of balled silk arranged in a basket upon
My mistress’s rocking chair,
Buttermilk given during autumn days,
And human hands fussing upon my coat,
That with the first snowfall grows thick.
(And I could speak to you of my fur,
Of its promise and purpose,
The calm and serene moments
And its lowered demands,
Of the machine in my throat
Running smooth with contentment
As fingers frolic upon it.)
I also remember the handsome Tom
Sitting upon my window,
Then my six children fastened to me,
Their paws dancing upon my breasts
To stir the creamy milk -
And I remember
Soon after the hurry to hunt returning,
Usually a mouse or lizard,
All tokens of my affection and gratitude -
Sitting at my mistress’s feet.
Now these days some fire in my gilded
Eyes dims day by day, and my stature trembles
Falling left or right as a towel is laid out
To soften the plummet of bones tired and frail.
There’s usually a temperate quietness,
Where shameless with indignant self-respect,
I practically breathe my last,
When my eyes spark just one more moment -
And though humanized,
I’m not at all human (as if I wish to be)
But in all sincerity,
a cat.
Marni De Ambershay