Anything that reminds him of fur,
anything that reminds him of clotted beginnings
in a dense litter of black and white.
The fleece recycled bottles make is mother now.
Answering his calls
I pick him up and his coat against my skin
becomes a part of what the night means.
I am not the philosopher
disturbed in the bathroom
at our unequal coverings.
And when I write on paper
in my dressing gown
he climbs my length abstractedly,
every placement of his paws
building an argument of its own.
Lucy Dougan’s books include White Clay (Giramondo) and Meanderthals (Web del Sol); and her prizes The Mary Gilmore Award and The Alec Bolton Award. She works for the Westerly Centre at UWA and as poetry editor for the journal Axon: Creative Explorations.