Salem in Sunlight

My black cat isn’t black at all. 
The sun strikes him the richest 
umber — a chocolatey angel. His ears
are bat wings, red rivers through-
clearing. He knows his name.
He can read a face. When I trace
the Egyptian cliffs of his skull, 
I think — wildly — of the word son. 
The glamour off his coin-cast eyes
will hypnotize. He chats at blackbirds 
that pick the lawn. Alone, he tries to 
lick himself bald. I’ve spent human 
money to get him to stop, bathed him 
in Nizoral over and over since that’s 
what the physician recommended. 
Towel-swaddled, his pupils are sharp 
beans. I’ve taught him to crawl 
into the tent I make with my knees 
and a blanket. He circles once,
twice, curls his swirl of void, melts 
in the womb-dark at my thighs.