Mom
Mesh
Of my window screen
In spring
Licked from the inside by our inherited old lady
She is made of bird bones
White whiskers
Wearing her oversized fur coat in the new heat
Pulled from mothballs
Tongue of sandpaper
Scratches and tastes
I don’t know what
Bitter pollen?
Invisible scents of fellow felines
Hunting shrews from under the garden?
Or lion mares of dandelions?
Perhaps
She is merely savoring herself
In the intricate weave of parallel atoms
Who wants a mirror at this age?
Without ears or eyes in her private world
She finds an in between
Alive
On the inside
And from the outside
My ancient mom hisses
None of your business.
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