Cat Journal

Pale Shade Of Late Winter

I jam my thumb up over the faucet.
Stinging dew soaks a rough towel,
warm breath touching porcelain to
skin
a picture of African Violets
screening white light from an
opaque window.

Scarlet cat
carved in rhinestone studded
plaster
curls over the shelf
beside the toothbrush rack
as if momentarily scratching
at rising steam.
It festers somehow.
I am naked in the shower as the
radio hangs over the shower caddy.
I poke holes in my reflection
in the foggy mirror afterwards.

The arch of my cat glides like
a shadow to me,
as I unpin my robe from the hook
on the other side of the door.
There is a table that holds prescriptions
and talc and I comb my wet hair
and jangle some glittering jewelry
for a winter wedding.

This is a room that is famous
for cat crying at midnight.
I climb into bed soundless
thinking of that crying.
The cat still glistens from a bath
I gave her too,
as if making tracks,
making imprints on the shag rug.