She pesters her own disposition, harries its peripheries
like a cat snagging carpet, immoderate claws
vexing nap after petty nap. Ah, but too soon tiring,
resigning. Retreating like a cat to its bed, its idle nap.
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by Therese L. Broderick
At 3 am, sound distills to a feline tongue’s sirp-
lick, sirp-lick, sirp-lick across a fur-coated belly,
a honey-colored thigh, the tiny maraschinos of a paw.
A mild wide sea, a slow sly tide
probing the beach, towing away the sand.
A sleepy cat kneading, kneading, kneading.
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