She can sit comfortably here, despite the crumbs, despite
dust blowing out from under the radiator --Â
the one thing between her and the window to a wide-open yard.
She speaks to the squirrels for hours, scolds the rabbits, relishes the drifting snow,
but says nothing of the green tulips pushing themselves through the frozen ground.
She is a sentry beside the stove. Blue flames mock the fire in her growling belly.
A cold draft under the door breezes lightly through her bones - she does not shiver.
Bacon drew her here. The aromatic, crackling fat in a black iron skillet.
Charred pork more anticipated than spring flowers. Stronger, lustier. Feral.
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She is immune to the smokey haze, but confounded by the will of a broomstick
as it slides down the wall to recline, defiantly, with a smack on the floor.Â
When the vacuum makes its entrance, its screaming whir forces her retreat.
Its threat real as the hunter; she makes no apologies. She knows when she is eclipsed,
tiptoes over the eggshells spilt from her bowl, cowers under a threshold without a door.