3 Poems
If only cats could coo
If only cats could coo,
she drowses, pulling a
pillow over her earlobes,
her claw-voiced alarm
would be a perfect lamb.
If only the man whose
shoulder cloaked her
like her eyelids, the one
who fishtails at talk,
if only he had the
landing wheel confidences
of a cozy romantic
she could walk away from.
She dozes to a studio
cave and clays together
composite models, best
attributes of boyfriends,
the livable of what she
has known, such as whatever
devotes one to Beethoven
with a Rousseau’s calm.
In the sunlight’s prying
her creations are
fantastic as centaurs,
sphinxes and griffins,
unfeasible and even
beastly in the real.
She watches limbs fall off,
decay in the sandspray.
And the cat that cannot coo
whines her awake to where
she might have befriended
a lover or loved a friend.
