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You stare, then flash a silver plume across
my face, and though you squirm to get away,
your hunger keeps you in my fist, the gloss
of love in heaving breaths as you ballet
the tease and play me, means to end—you bite
my fingertips and paw me in a race
to fill the emptiness; once fed, you fight
your way to sleep inside a pillowcase.
I know I shouldn’t pet or stroke or speak—
just feed. Avoid the intimate. Resist.
When you’re released, these fits of pique
will spur you on, you wild, gray thing. Insist
on free, content, like me, to be bitten, scratched,
and wake each morning blissfully unattached.