A River of Familiars
I have a cat that sharpens her scent on men.
I netted her from the river, called her mother.
Perhaps thereís a cat-flap in the sky,
because sometimes my motherís a golden owl.
I have a memory cat that in a past life
knew the taste of golden whiskey.
My cat has a curiosity about the whiskey-crazy
wish for public nudity.
I have a crazy city cat with a lightning dart
across her lazy eye.
And my lightning cat has an earring, just the one,
mother-of-pearl. Call it intuition.
And seven secret positions, the last
a chanting lotus. I have a cat that doesnít exist.
I have a penchant for jumping trains, inhaling
with each knock. I have a sister cat who inhales too.
I have a lover who becomes a lion under the glassy moon.
And the cat exhales her wail, like an accordion.
One cat is a grand, glass-lidded, gleaming ivory,
the light not yet put out.
First-born, I am, of a cat who cycles lightly
inside his mansion full of stories, war and music.
My cat and I wear twenty masks when singing
out in rain, take it, like a wafer, on the tongue.
I have a cat that purrs in white and black
or foggy smoke rings, belly up.
As a foggy curtain rises, a missing cat
runs rings around the time inside a clock.
Copyright © Afric McGlinchey 2016