Dianalee Velie – p. 186

Portrait of the Poet

For my portrait, I must be nude, bared for the artist to see the scars of body and psyche that have curtailed my desire. An open book of poetry will lie beside me with a sleeping cat upon the printed page. Nearby, a blue pen rests upon a folded sheet of ivory paper, concealing an abandoned poem. A bouquet of fragrant gardenias will fill the room with scent while three white memorial candles illuminate my space, casting the ever-present, incandescent shadows of my life.

I must face away from the artist, my long mahogany hair the focus, spilling away from the curve of my back, not my emerald eyes, deep with sorrow. My left hand, ring less, supports me, as I lean into the sway of my hair, making visible the closure of a necklace at the nape of my neck, suggesting pearls hanging languidly between my breasts, teasing the voyeur, who will stare at this painting in the future, when I am old, or dead, yearning to unlock this poem’s intricate clasp.

Kathryn MacDonald

Luna Cat

I am that cat you see on the neighbour’s porch, curled between clay pots of geranium red blooms bright against my dusky coat.

When the sun dips late on spring afternoons it is pleasant to slip away from the sadness lingering in the house.

Shadows fall across the road, creeping toward night. The porchlight will flick on and she’ll call my name.

Then I’ll curl into her lap, offer the lemony-green scent of the heady blossoms offer my throaty purrs to console her.