The first, the grey tabby, pawing at my face

A Poem by Adrie Rose

 

The first, the grey tabby, pawing at my face
so I will let him under the covers or
heavy between one knee and the other
so I cannot turn. I regret waking
but do it anyway, one child
already eating cereal
and listening to the same audiobook
he listens to every day. Phone,
headphones, walk. Now daffodils,
now garlic mustard, now the tiny yellow
flowers by the river whose name
I cannot remember. The way a woman
looks afraid when we have to pass
each other on the path, the man
winding up the swings on the playground
so they cannot be used.
My children, running along the top
of the sand dunes by the side of the river,
not wondering (as I do) how they came there,
simply running, faster, shouting,
You can’t catch me!
The teacher on the call saying, It matters
if you survive, each one of you,
the apple I slice and bring,
the nightmares they wake from,
the pillow I bring with me from one bed
to another, the last our breathing together
in the darkened room, still.

April 2020