Arthur Davison Ficke

1883-1945 / United States

Opus 181

Skeptical cat,
Calm your eyes, and come to me.
For long ago, in some palmed forest,
I too felt claws curling
Within my fingers...
Moons wax and wane;
My eyes, too, once narrowed and widened...
Why do you shrink back?
Come to me: let me pat you—
Come, vast-eyed one...
Or I will spring upon you
And with steel-hook fingers
Tear you limb from limb...

There were twins in my cradle...
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