It must have been weeks, the scratching.
Her fur careening to somersault
in evening's hungriest hour, when sleep gnaws
the peaked head of sun and launches
her fleas to feeding.
In the tub, her nails seize porcelain.
She dreads the faucet, the honey-milk
shampoo. I work my fingers along
her spine's jewels, flick the flattened
thoraxes of fleas from her suds.
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