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Last Not least
MY CAT IN HER FIRST SPRING
by Angela Carter
With the spring coming, my cat is beginning to bud.
sprouting nipples all along her long white breast,
this long-legged, adolescent she.
And in the strange
country fitfully lit by the inward-turning suns
of her yellow
eyes, such alien trees shake out moist leaf
and the seed-crusted ferns uncoil with a slow blindness
in the rich fruit-cake of her dark recesses
where the wrinkled
intuitions her summer roses stir and tremble
in their sleep
for spring is coming, and the fat buds bulge.
With the spring coming, my cat is beginning to bud.
sprouting nipples all along her long white breast,
this long-legged, adolescent she.
And in the strange
country fitfully lit by the inward-turning suns
of her yellow
eyes, such alien trees shake out moist leaf
and the seed-crusted ferns uncoil with a slow blindness
in the rich fruit-cake of her dark recesses
where the wrinkled
intuitions her summer roses stir and tremble
in their sleep
for spring is coming, and the fat buds bulge.
For choice poetry and other illuminations from the other side of the pond
follow George Simmers Snakeskin blog
http://snakeskinpoetry.
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