Sunday, August 19, 2007

one for willie



arofa
marge piercy


My little carry-on baggage,
my howler monkey, my grey-
eyed tuxedo of passion,
you want a monogamous relationship
with me. Othello, if you were
big as me you'd have nipped
my head off in a fit.
Gourmet, winebibber, you fancy
a good Bordeaux as much
as schlag, but would rather
be petted than eat.
You play Ivan the Terrible
to guests, you hiss and slap
at them to go away. Only an
occasional lover gains
your tolerance if my smell
rubs off on them and you are
allowed to sleep in the bed.

When I travel you hurtle
about upending rugs.
When I return you run from me.
Not till I climb into bed
are you content and crouch
between my breasts kneading,
a gray and white bundle of purrs.

When I got a kitten a decade
and a half ago, I didn't know
I was being acquired
by such a demanding lover,
such a passionate, jealous,
furry, fussy mate.

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