An Open Book

The cat is a poem written in cursive
like a long sentence without punctuation.

Stripes on her face rhyme with the ones
around her waist. Nudge the ear with the end

of the pen, smear ink of exposed claws as they sink
into both sides of a hand. Cat gazes

middle distance with eyes like gallows,
reading bird song and shadow. Half dozen

finches pop like golden seeds on hot lawn;
dove’s bow and bob, shadows double

the orchard. Bunches of birds come and go, cat
stretches a ready arm across the stack of books by her head;

bides her time, levels ears, twitches and studies—
thump thumping an eleven syllable tail.