She doesn't understand her
biology.
Her need for extra attention.
Her desire to
chirp and meow
constantly, and raise her
**** in the air.

She gazes out the
window with
longing in her
golden eyes.
Her calls through the
screen bring no
visitors.
Little lonely orphan.

She sits with me while
I write at my large
maple desk.
She swats at the
purple orchid.
It drives her batty.
I've been there.
Lost in the
smell and taste of
flowers.
She wanders over to
the Starry Night
painting and looks
dizzy at the sky.
She lifts her **** in
the air and stutter steps
rapidly with her
back paws.

When I got her and
her sister, I thought they
had *****.
I named him (her)
Bukowski.
She comes to the
name
and seems to like it.
Pray for me.
Buk's in heat.

a darker green,
jasmine climbs the window,
storms brew, we are older now.

as we climbed into the canopies
bright green swallowed me
through sweet soil
and dew cloaked womb
eyes mist wet
I emerged
stinging new
fingers unfurling
grasping for a nurse log
touching
furrowed bark
and smooth baby caps
soaking shades
glistening with epiphyte moss
sipping centuries
to hold me
in this crisp breath