under the heat dome
there is a Siamese cat
crossing the alley.
he used to be my cat
but he lives with some other woman now.
the moon is also a cat—
round-faced, old-fashioned,
talkative.
this moon-cat follows me
from room to room
as I wander
in the mid-night.
heat soaks into my body;
curls under my diaphragm;
tries to suffocate me.
she finds me in my chair
nestles in, will not leave.
as I read, I listen to the moon-cat’s chatter,
and pray for relief
in this brutal, new-world August.
Published on The Laundry Line, June 3, 2025.
