O Y S T E R   B O Y   R E V I E W   9
 
  T H E   S N O W   C A T
 
  Ann McGarrell
 
 
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Now new snow blurs the tracks
I've barely read:
Squirrel and deer: the alko lady's
polydactyl cat, each print a seven-petalled flower.
By the first poplars they're all going, gone.

Kneedeep in anything is shit.
Turn back. It's time.
The scraps of fur and bone
I saw last spring
are scattered deep by now,
are not

at all.

I plunge back up the hill,
no good at country, winter, death;
knowing the bears are right:
curl silently to sleep,
wear a white wreath of breath

but in my throat
the dead cat spreads her claws.

 
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