The Poetry of Mary K O'Melveny



I miss her soft and furry form,

a purring pillow near my cheek

keeping company and keeping warm,

listening politely to words I speak.

Running suddenly in middle night,

rugs in jumbled heap at daybreak.

Singing jungle songs at sudden sight

of hapless pigeons whose mistake

landed them by window’s light.

She knew all my inner secrets,

(the ones that kept me quite awake),

figured the way to prevent alarm

was wild air leaps of pure delight.


From the top of our bedroom armoire,

she could fly straight out,

curve gently round, down, making a liar

of those whose calculations flout

creativity or focus on formulaic

solutions.  She knew what she was about:

feline mythology.  Rejecting the algebraic,

she plunged forward into air without

apparent fears, as if loss of nerve was quaint,

eyes wide open.  (Until she landed

on my pillow, I always felt quite faint.)

Then tender relief rose up, erased that early doubt,

her gifts greater than our relationship demanded.





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