By Anu Lakhan
In this perfect life there are eight paws
a flash or a drape of fur: white, grey, amber, black
two pink noses
maybe a dozen sounds — one of them, a
sensation, a murmur of the body — masquerading
as a sound.
One half of this perfect life walks in the rain, purring.
When it rains at night, all three of us, my perfect life and I,
watch the shower through the glass door
hoping to be marooned, longing for exile.
The other half talks to birds with a quivering jaw,
they die thinking themselves understood.
I am less beguiled
but clean up the mess anyway.
Anu Lakhan writes about books and food. She lives in Trinidad.