The soul of my cat is in the rise
and fall of her breathing,
undulations like wind over
a prairie, softest plumes trembling
on the spine of a knife.
All sinew and wave,
the soul of my cat shape
shifts between the purring
vibrissae of her brows,
beckons from her revelatory
tail, poises in the ridges of
her lion’s claws.
When she stretches, her soul
flees, leaving behind small pink
footsteps on naris and philtrum,
twitching velvet on watchmen
ears, glittering white
across a primordial pouch.
Her soul is all suggestion.
She sees me with her whole
being. Seraphim
with six wings and four faces,
full of eyes within,
before, and behind –
every word she whispers is
Holy.
Photo by Gijs Coolen on Unsplash
