wicked alice| fall 2009

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Jill Crammond Wickham



June Cleaver Considers Being a Cat Whisperer, Channels a Beloved Pet



The calico cat tells me her mother with the seven teats

was a far better mother than I, and I believe her.


She favors me with a tri-color side view—some gold,

some pearl, some onyx--a profile of divine felinity


(if there is such a device) and I am humbled.  I am not a cat. 

My whiskers plucked long ago, fur shorn, teats slivered to two


dried fountains by the time I finished my hunt for a Tom.

A woman who has had a Tom—capital T or lower-


case—is a lioness.  Toms are independent street lovers

satisfied with quick capers in grass, brambles or branches.


Watch your tired garden, flat and grey from winter:

selfish human, you may think spring is coming


just for you;  cats will prove you wrong in their endless

grail for new life.  The super family huddles around


the mother who licks her belly, licks her baby, bottoms

up for the male with the fiercest growl season after season.