Cat

Lauren Hollingworth-Smith

After Helen Mort

Some nights, with a pool of warmth on my thighs

and a soft engine thrumming, I remind myself –

I am not a cat. Even though I want to spend

the whole day sleeping, occasionally stretching

to hide in boxes, jump on tables, pad my soles

over keyboards to say my hellos, I don’t. 

Sure, I might chew things that I shouldn’t –

glasses, pen lids, plastic bottle tops; dribble ink,

knock things over, leave trails of dirt from the solitude

of a night-time prowl, but I am not a cat.

And yet, it’s true, I could rub myself against you,

give you small, rough licks, nuzzle your calves,

musk you with my scent, curl up on your belly,

lay my head on your chest. Declare you mine