Cat Lover

I.

I did love
my grandmother, but not
her portly calicos, fat little
Pharisees, noses high and dry
with haughty self-assurance.

I am indifferent toward
the ones who love
the ones who are fickle
and difficult to love,

as they bear bipolar seasons
grimly with pretentious monologues

of how dog lovers like myself
are poor and lazy lovers,
preferring earnest appetites,
wet noses, flagging tails—

Look, I’ve lived
that life how many lives? for feline
women mummified in pent-up
slumbers waiting for my royal
springtime kiss, that love
resuscitation, prestidigitation
petals on flowered organs, pressed in
constant music

which had her purring—

until, of course she glimpsed the afterlife
and *poof* she and all of them

were gone.