Not Sunday but the bell
on the cat’s collar seems a benediction
as the cat rolls in the dust, feathers
its black coat with talc.
Dawn shakes a congregation of finches
from the trees, lashes
a knot in the sky.
Landlady of the cedar calls her mate,
onyx pendant at her throat,
clear notes of lament for what she bears,
thieves at every limb,
no weapon but this voice.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 15, Issue 3.
See all items about Jenifer Browne Lawrence