After Paul Verlaine (1844-1896)
At dusk, she frolics with her cat,
And it is such a stunning sight.
White hand, white paw play pat, pat, pat,
As long, deep shadows bring on night.
The little wretch conceals her claws
In velvet gloves, so one can’t see
Her dagger-points that she will draw
And brandish, when they disagree.
The cunning one can be, no doubt,
A honey-sweet, sly hypocrite.
She-devil! One’s not fooled a bit.
Who is she? Circe is her name.
And in the room, when cries ring out,
Four points of phosphor shine like flame.
© Alice Park 2005