The Cat, Our Sentinel of Sleep

I swim the tides of sleep, I swim the tides of sleep, surfacing

briefly, to catch little glimpses of the clock:

4:30. 4:47. 5:12. 5:34—before slipping back under

the murky and mottled glass of dreams

unable to piece the kaleidoscope of poorly lit hallways

and long forgotten teachers

into anything resembling sense

instead bob at the surface,

awaiting the shrill volley of notes, a decibel too loud for waking,

to clatter off the nightstand and send the cat over us both

Spring loaded, a swath of calico, bounds across

our tangled, horizontal arrangement—

From above we appear serpentine, our thighs braided together

Your torso, a sturdy trunk I’ve grown fond of climbing,

Peeks out from beneath the ocean of linen we’re knotted in

and in a graceless misuse of hips, the cat scrabbles across us,

and making a half circle of herself, settles above our heads

before grappling your forearm—

She licks the long hooks of hair, coiling

like cooled molasses at the base of your wrist

and then lunging like a viper, strikes down

into the webbing between your thumb

resuming her careful and tedious sampling

of the salt you keep there

this persists, the usual battle between you two,

for a couple of minutes until the cat upturns herself

in exhaustive defeat, belly up in surrender,

and you, uprooting yourself of the entanglement,

shake off the last vaporous tendrils of sleep

and glide towards the kitchen

the cat slinking behind you,

while I swim a little longer atop our mattress,

diving under the glass of dreams again,

and catching the scent of coffee you put on

resign to waking, grateful for the mornings

we spend entwined, the cat, our sentinel of sleep.