Today's poem is by Natasha SajÚ
the cats playing with a rose fallen
from a wreath: a stiff silvery stem
topped by a dark pink ball.
How charmingly they bat the rose,
sniffing it with glee, and that's what
makes me bend, and see that it's really
the long dried tail and entrails of a rat.
I laugh: If rose & rat are not so far
apart, then what can't be mistaken
for something that it's not?
The turn's a way of telling me
to make each breath a self-revision.
Copyright © 2002 Natasha SajÚ All rights reserved
from The Belot Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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