A perfect candidate for Miss
Morbidity, I often wake
at 4 a.m. to hear the hiss
of life evaporating from the lake
of itself. The cat, a charcoal smudge
on blue pillows, smothers me in fur.
Blind and deeply in need of touch,
he meets my terror
inch for inch. I never go downstairs
to watch TV or have a snack.
I lie still, trying not to think of stars
or other distances, the track
of years and the level crossing,
only my blood turning and tossing.