ailsaandlisa

By: ailsaandlisa

Apr 13 2012

Category: free verse, poem

2 Comments

It used to be young men
who stopped me working,
keeping me from my essays
with their eyes, their shirts,
that scent of sweat, of savoury cloves,
their clever conversation.

Then, children.
‘Don’t read, Mama, look at this!’
And there had to be time
for stories, drums, screaming, glitter,
fights, swings, trains, cake,
a warm body on a sofa teaspooned against mine.

And now my cat won’t let
me write. He sits on this book,
covering as much as he can
gnashing at this pen
headbutting my hand
purring into my chest.

So I give up, give in, stroke
his belly. He claws me tight,
teasing with bites like kisses,
arches his back, sighs,
a quiet roar in his throat,
then curls into sleep in my lap.

I watch his dark, happy shape.
I pick up my pen.