After Charles Baudelaire
Come, my fine cat, don’t turn away;
Draw in your claws, be mollified
When I look deep into your eyes,
Two limpid pools of bright blue-gray.
And if you’ll let me stroke your back,
I will caress you leisurely,
Until you have infused in me
The perfect aphrodisiac.
You bring my mistress to my mind,
Her glance like yours, elusive beast,
Cold, cunning, sly, compelling, shrewd.
From sleek dark head to supple spine,
Her strange and wonderful perfume
Swims round her body’s dusky flesh.
© Alice Park 2004
Published in The Formalist Vol. 15, Issue 2, 2004