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Audio and Video

Salmon Poetry

A River of Familiars

Afric McGlinchey

I have a cat that sharpens her scent on men. 
 I netted her from the river, called her mother.

Perhaps there’s a cat-flap in the sky, 
 because sometimes my mother’s a golden owl.

I have a memory cat that in a past life 
 knew the taste of golden whiskey.

My cat has a curiosity about the whiskey-crazy
 wish for public nudity.

I have a crazy city cat with a lightning dart 
 across her lazy eye. 

And my lightning cat has an earring, just the one, 
 mother-of-pearl. Call it intuition.

And seven secret positions, the last 
 a chanting lotus. I have a cat that doesn’t exist.

I have a penchant for jumping trains, inhaling 
 with each knock. I have a sister cat who inhales too.

I have a lover who becomes a lion under the glassy moon. 
 And the cat exhales her wail, like an accordion.

One cat is a grand, glass-lidded, gleaming ivory, 
 the light not yet put out. 

First-born, I am, of a cat who cycles lightly 
 inside his mansion full of stories, war and music.

My cat and I wear twenty masks when singing 
 out in rain, take it, like a wafer, on the tongue.

I have a cat that purrs in white and black 
 or foggy smoke rings, belly up.

As a foggy curtain rises, a missing cat
 runs rings around the time inside a clock. 
Copyright © Afric McGlinchey 2016

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