You are a cat,
and all your nine lives are wasted on trifles,
on washing and cooking and tidying up,
on war painting your face and body,
on taking cat naps beside the cradle.
I have so little of you left to hold –
shall I pour you some moon milk?
I’m reading you like teenage adventures of Sherlock,
like crib notes written on a girl’s knees.
All that is left of you is La Peau de chagrin
that gets smaller and thinner with years,
but I never give up wishing, longing.
A small feather sticks out of the pillow
like a skiing track on a mountain slope;
the caramel moon shines through the window,
and I’m looking at you through the years
as if through a heavy snowfall:
you’re smiling, and your lips
in the flurry of the falling snowflakes.