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.