Day 113: Their eyes hold ciphers of gold.

I came early to have breakfast with my nephew before he went home. Suddenly I stepped on something soft, furry, and small. A scream escaped my throat. I thought it was a rodent of some sort until I looked down and saw Squirrel.

 

Squirrel is V's toy. V is the beastly half-tailed cat in the bottom half of the picture. Her voice sounds like an old smoker's and she carries Squirrel around, dropping her in various doorways as if she hunted it herself. Squirrel no longer has eyes. V is a brute.

 

O little

emperor without a realm,

conqueror without a homeland,

diminutive parlor tiger, nuptial

sultan of heavens

roofed in erotic tiles:

when you pass

in rough weather

and poise

four nimble paws

on the ground,

sniffing,

suspicious

of all earthly things

(because everything

feels filthy

to the cat's immaculate paw),

you claim

the touch of love in the air.

O freelance household

beast, arrogant

vestige of night,

lazy, agile

and strange,

O fathomless cat,

secret police

of human chambers

and badge

of burnished velvet!

 

Camera: Hipstamatic

Lens: Matty ALN

Film: Alfred Infrared

Flash: Off

 

 

April is National Poetry Month.The poem that the title is taken from Ode to the Cat by Pablo Neruda.

Done