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Dmitry Blizniuk

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

look yogurt-stained

in the flurry of the falling snowflakes.

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