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.