At night he trots over rooftops, leaves scat
on the porch, sets the screen door swinging.
It’s the cat he wants, but I give him water
in a bowl the color of the moon.
I’ve built my house on his creek,
untangled the trees in his forest.
Now I drink from his bowl,
offer my fingers for him to lick—
he circles and snaps
at the back of my thigh.
I am the creek bed crackling with drought,
the tinder for his yellow eyes—
I am wild, his wild,
first appeared in Ekphrasis