My Cat

Isabel Chaplain
My cat, whose fur is the color of death gray, 
Like a house on fire filled with smoke that burns the brain. 

My cat, whose eyes are orange trees,
yet to be picked before the spring. 

My cat, whose eyes slant like a poised knife,
waiting to strike.

My cat, whose ears curve like broken arrowheads,
Lost in the field of futile battle.

My cat, whose nose is smushed like the nails that hang oil paintings, 
pounded against the wall.

My cat, whose whiskers are fickle,
Like whispers. 

My cat whose limbs are marked like tree branches, 
Soaked in overcast. 

My cat, whose paws are like freshly rising biscuits, 
With the watery mouths of children in front of them. 

My cat, whose body that slightly rounds, 
Like the rising mounds in barren and dying. 

My cat, whose teeth are gemstone daggers,
Sharpened marble on reddish gummed mountains. 

My cat, whose soul is nothing but a lost star,
Awaiting for the moon's call, for permission to shine.