I'm really worried about the squirrel
on the high point of the roof, sleeping,
with his his belly pressed against the slats.
He reminds me of our ginger cat
who died in a strange place that he had
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd something not-mine that I love:
by Rita Dove
on the inside, above the bone—leans closer,
breath of lime and pepper—I know I could
make love to you. She considers
this, secretly thrilled, though she wasn’t quite
sure what he meant. He was good
with words, words that went straight to the liver.
Was she falling for him out of sheer boredom—
cooped up in this anything-but-humble dive, stone
gargoyles leering and brocade drapes licked with fire?
Her ankle burns where he described it. She sighs
just as her mother aboveground stumbles, is caught
by the fetlock—bereft in an instant—
while the Great Man drives home his desire.