Cat

Through the open door of the nail salon, I can see my house, stoic as a suit of armor.

Athena the cat lives here, among the tiny bottles and drills.

She weaves between the legs of young girls who know

their colors: this one wants red, the other green, and still another

              red, on fingers and toes.

Athena climbs slow into the foot bath and bares to me all she’s got

as she laps the water from the faucet.

              Right now, there’s a bag of dirty laundry near my bed, a half empty

              pack of razors on the ottoman, a blow dryer unplugged and left on the floor.

I swat flies. I check my watch.

Athena contemplates the outside, my house there with its shutters and sponges and

                            plastic tubes, only to come and sit before us who wait

                            to be made. Then she opens her mouth––

licks the elastic skin which connects her leg

to her stomach, and her stomach, her feet, vulva and tail, heeds

none, pays nothing, her only chore: to give her body

the rough lashing it demands.

Cydni Thompson is a poet from Queens. She’s an MFA student at Queens College. Her work can be found in trampset, Sunhouse Lit, and No, Dear Magazine.

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