Yes, I see you there
Back arched with
Luxurious grace
Your thick and feral
Tail swaying like
A hypnotist’s trick

Leading the eye
Exactly to where
You want it:
That perfect little
Pink puckering
A delicate terminus

I envy your shining fur
Your effortless athleticism
And your all-seeing eyes
But most of all
That parading bottom
On proud display

I hold my milk-stained
Child in my arms
And think the sacrifice
Was worth it
Yet I can’t stop staring
As you flaunt past

The baby follows you
With her eyes, reaches
Out for the silken limbs
That dance just out of reach
As you keep your target
Square in the line of sight

Oh to have an uncompromised
Ending – a luxury
Of the very young
Or creatures whose
Bodies have kept
Their animal wisdom

I was made, unmade
Repaired, sewn back
Together again
And in a miracle I am
Somehow whole
(I suppose?)

Still I long
For the innocence of
That perfect rosebud
A gift only realised
With cheeky regret
Once the bloom is lost

Note: I have yet to meet a cancer patient whose experience has not forced them to think in great detail about poop. The side effects were in full force today. I made an off-hand joke by text to a friend about being jealous of a cat’s perfect bottom, and realised actually there was the root of a poem in it.

Photo by Mike Stillwater on Unsplash