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Child of the sphinx, In your golden eyes A millennium of small slaughters In the gold of the granary, In the warehouse, or in ships at sea; In Egypt of four thousand years ago Parlaying a useful propensity For the taste of rat and roach Into a culture's devotion. This morning, on the outhouse roof, Your paw preens fur, Silk in the sun, Feathering the wind With the ruin of the first kill. At day's end, a lumpy bed; A lightbulb Burning like Guernica. Your body burrows into my blankets; Your head Butts at my flank, And your textures Predict the sun. Your throat Purrs. |
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