Improv of Carol Ann Duffy's "Warming Her Pearls"
It must have been weeks, the scratching. Her fur
careens to a somersault, past nails, in evening's
hungriest hour, when sleep gnaws sunlight
and launches her fleas to feeding. I lift her
to the tub again, her nails seize, dreading
faucets or honey-milk shampoo. She shudders,
I work impatiently, my finger's knead
coaxes her spine's jewels. She digs me
under nail's curve, hangs me up
with pain not even fleas feel. Dead,
I flick their flattened thorax from the suds
and scrub her, drown them with the mug's
wet heat. I twist her and every spin her nails
spiral the enamel until her wild nose knocks
the mug and smash and she crashes
to the open weight of my waiting arms.
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