by Mairghread McLundie

I fill my nostrils with her warm fur
      exhale family

       I did not fret about language
       its stresses, tense and pattern

       that writing could be like her stretch on waking
       – rump raised, chest dipped, one paw tendered –
       natural, innate

                                          as breathing.

Against my lips
        she chirrs contentment

       simply from herself
       – the aperture of her iris, the orientation
                               of each ear, the nuance of her tail –

       an infinite vocabulary
       of rhythm, tension

                                        and poise.