Not the red ball of yarn I threw at her,
a lizard’s tail,
the bright threads of a woolen rag,
a fish head, some greens that fell
off the kitchen table,
a piece of cracked shell,
maybe an egg,
perhaps a stray spider.
Resource and invention
would lead her
to a hoard of non-edible things,
and I fear the sharpest
like razor blades or metal—
keys, coins, and stray bullets.
They say cats
have nine lives, a longevity
that may explain their strange
and inquisitive hunger.
Dirty socks are not
spared, and so are
the most fragile—
a gleam of goldfish,
easy victim to her rabid
south paw.
Sometimes, the tip of a
polyester curtain lifted
by agitated
air.
But I adore her
despite the breakage,
the lingering smell of rot
from mouse or mice,
for what she digests
or breaks to partial bits
speaks of her ability
for elusive form,
to occupy her entire shadow—
vigilant like the full triangle
of her right
pointed ear.
