when I enter the kitchen at lunchtime on a balmy day in
mid-December, thunderstorms
crawling up from the Gulf,
and I discover seven cats
clustered by the back porch:
Daisy rolling lazily beside the
sliding glass door, Pansy and
one black kitten perched on
the top step, Jasmine and the
other two kittens frolicking
beneath, and Poppy’s father
sleeping in a spot of sun,
maple leaves folding over him
like foamy waves at high tide.
A thick layer of winter pollen
yellows the plastic chairs
on the porch, as a ladybug
inches across the floor,
and a lithe mosquito bangs
against the door. Eventually,
this commonwealth of cats
unravels, Jasmine skipping
into the pinewoods, her new
litter bouncing beside her,
the others wandering away
one at a time, leaving only
the pumpkin from Halloween
blooming boldly tangerine on
the porch table, a grinning
black cat drawn like a curtain
across its plump rind. But for
a little while, surrounded by
felines, including three more
gathered in the kitchen at my
feet, I realize I am happiest
when submerged in a sea of
cats, as if at the core of my
being I’m hinged with whisker
and claw, as if the blood that
rushes through my veins also
hums to a soft purr of love.