you can look at your cat
and wonder
where she's been,
because she'll never be able to tell you herself.
as rain makes the windows grey
she sleeps in yellow.
why does she love tutus
made of forgotten steps and tulle
can
she smell the stage lights in the creases?
her whiskers are like violin strings.
have her rosé paws
traveled along crumbling castle walls
careful
not to tumble down the empty cliffs
of london
a long way down
into a sea only she
has ever seen
with her moss opal eyes?
her tiger stripes are breathing on her back.
did she wander beneath
a raindrop sun
in antiquity
and stone treasures
later
melt into old castle gardens
pick her silent way
through brush and ivy
stalking stalks
and ferns curled like the tips of her ears?
perhaps
the bedspread she's engulfed in
was once raspberry bushes
and foxgloves.
she loves windows because
she can watch the geese that come
carrying
stories of home on their feathers.
maybe she wore jewels
before she wore a flea collar.
you'll never know
where the sleeping creature
at the foot of your bed has been
or why
she feels so entitled to your covers,
your tutus,
your time.
a foreign english royalty
could be curled around herself
at your knee,
dreaming of white lilies
green hedges
the music of velvet and diadems.
you can look at your cat
and wonder
where she's been,
because she'll never be able to tell you herself.
