Oyster Boy Review 13  
  Summer 2001
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» Levee 67



Lyn Lifshin

for the moment, my
cat, who turned her head
at chunks of just
cut beef, now is nuzzling
nearly empty cat food
tins, purrs thru the
night. Limp as rags,
for a week under the
bed, now she claws the
rug in the sun. I say
nothing, just listen
as I do to her crunching
food, lapping water
at 2 a.m. In stillness
the sound comforts
like bells or words in
Spanish or French
I don't understand. Her
chewing, like pearls
or amber warming to
skin, soothes though it
is as untranslatable
to me as the nuances
under chatter in
the streets of Montreal
or Paris. Still, for
the moment, like music
or velvet, her paws on my
eyelid are a reprieve,
like June, or roses
or lilacs in early light
before anything scorches,
goes limp or loses
its rouge, while morning
glories are a necklace
of amethyst, exotic as
gracia, si bon merci