我们的猫躺在炉子的前火眼上，
右腿悬在炉门上。他正窥视着
食品储藏柜，他的碗
正满满地放在柜台上。他的小碟，
这只泼上了奶油，空空地搁在上面。
答应想要变成这只猫。说“行”
想要横卧在残羹剩饭上温暖，
让它升入你柔软的肚子，
摊开每一根抽动的胡须，扭动
软毛和细胞，穿过你莫比乌斯带的
血流。你不知道你会死。
你不知道这只不为你存在的老鼠。
如果一只膝头上空而温暖的，
你要做此登陆，感受一只颤抖的手
抚摸你的背，在你耳后挠痒
你将会惬意地打呼噜。
Our cat lies across the stove's front burners,
right leg hanging over the oven door. He
is looking into the pantry where his bowl
sits full on the counter. His smaller dish,
the one for his splash of cream, sits empty.
Say yes to wanting to be this cat. Say
yes to wanting to lie across the leftover
warmth, letting it rise into your soft belly,
spreading into every twitch of whisker, twist
of fur and cell, through the Mobius strip
of your bloodstream. You won't know
you will die. You won't know the mice
do not exist for you. If a lap is empty and
warm, you will land on it, feel an unsteady
hand along your back, fingers scratching
behind your ear. You will purr.
"After Spending the Morning Baking Bread" by Jack Ridl from Practicing to Walk Like a Heron. © Wayne State University Press, 2013. Reprinted with permission.
