Dead bracken leaf: a sun-bleached carcass. A feral cat pads down the road undetected by squirrels, its sodden gray coat the color of gravel.



    It would be a classic Dali: bleached carcass
    limp on a branch like a wayward pancake
    and a brittle bracken leaf thrown over it,
    instead of melting clocks draped in a landscape
    of swarming ants and a piece of Catalonia.

    Would the stalking feral feline be a Kahlo
    then? And the gamboling arboreal rodents
    a persistent memory of an abandoned lunch
    where Monet could have etched them gleaning
    atop a table that has not been cleared away,

    instead of his son Jean playing quietly
    alone in the dappled shade where sunlight
    falls and the colour sparkles? And the sodden
    cat’s gravel gray fur? And the palpable tension
    there? Clive Hicks-Jenkins, sipping Welsh tea,

    could easily paint that in a corner of his canvas
    between a raven and a firebird and let it bode
    disaster for those absently unheeding squirrels.
    Except that he would not. He is too gentle.
    He would have those rodents dancing with the cat.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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