Rosie cat climbs onto the boy’s lap

and snuggles in, her ample flank flexing

rhythmically while she tucks her head

under an arm, safe, warm and contented.

It does not matter that he is typing

on the laptop. She rises, turns,

re-establishes pillowing on his

tummy, and squeezes her eyes

together in silent pleasance.

Something about family and tribe

and campfire primition is adrift in

her innate gathering to the family.

She has given herself to us, or gathered

us as hers.

Either way, there is a complete

acceptance, taken-for-grantedness

in her bodily grace that speaks

of ages and eons

of feline feminine self care.

That I could let myself sink so

completely into comfort, so

lasciviously into the stretch and

tawn of musculature is more

than my New England heart can

comprehend.

Yet, the sinuous naturalness

speaks to me, sings, of a sheer

joy to physical being. We’ve been

given this gift, after all, of a body.