Femmes in furnished rooms
She lies wedged between pillows
stares into my aura
as if, I am her captive, her audience
her end of journey.
We are faithful femmes of different breeds
claiming space in furnished rooms.
She is demonic on days of play
swinging chains to split the verticals
teaching table lamps to slip each globe.
Mostly, she’s pawing crickets into lino
or inviting invisible mice to tea
otherwise, "it's showtime" under cottage rug.
Why, she even polishes the floor
with peat-moss feet
and if that's not enough she grinds it
further into kitchen, linen chairs.
This cat beguiles
twists my stomach into helix tears,
and on a well-worn track I'm just her porter
spooning tuna meals.
Sometimes I find her crawling over me
as if my seat was hers alone
as if I should, 'move over, please!'
Well, she’s taken over the end of my bed
the study where I read, the sofa,
shoes partly shelved from my feet.
These days, I find her swaying like some exotic beast
chin-buffing walls, and if it's crazy hour when the moon
is full, she's clawing chicken, ham or bacon
from the bottom of the fridge.
Yet, this tortoiseshell of ginger snow
and mustard slip, trots nonchalantly to her winter warmth
where from an upward brush of tongue and lateral lean
spreads her body forked to sun.
This is where I meet her at the station
grind to a hum of tv screen
and in the glow I see her watching
as I coil and ponder on carpet floor
how much I need
the ancient sleep of cats.
Helen Hagemann
© Copyright 2000
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