I awoke early, when the sunlight
reached my face, pouring from the window
like an amber pitcher
overturned
above the foot of our bed.

Easing back the sheet and stepping
softly, my naked feet just
missed landing on a headless yellow finch.
My cat had left a gift, a remnant
of devotions on the altar of my oriental
rug.  Feathers dappled the floor, as if the sun
had seeped, like a stain into the bird
before sunrise.

When I yelled my cat just
gazed coolly, as cats do, perched
on haunches, tail twitching near his prey.  You
awoke.  I pointed, indignant at the desecration, then
stomped off to the bathroom.

When I returned the cat was out.  You
knelt to pluck the last of feathers from the floor, gathered
their weightlessness into your wide
uncalloused hands.  I slipped
back between the blankets,
grateful.

Minutes later the thick dark
scent of coffee reached me.  When you returned I pulled the cover back for you, guided
your fresh-scrubbed hands
between my thighs.
What more do any of us
want, but to find someone
to whisk away the mauled
and bleeding—to boot the clawed
indifferent beast outside?