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CAT AT MIDNIGHT
by April Halprin Wayland
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Night.
She pads out to the porch, I hide.
“Come sleep with me,” she says,
while turning off the light.
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I wait.
She goes to bed.
Then mastering my fright,
I slink inside.
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I’m careful where I tread
I tiptoe past his plate
and cross a rope he’s shred,
then sneak around his crate,
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peer in its door with hope:
perhaps he’s dead.
Nope.
The mutt is just asleep.
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I leap onto her bed
It’s good I am so light.
But from my bedspread post,
I hear a muffled groan
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and freeze.
Dog hasn’t raised his head—
he’s sleeping like a stone.
I breathe—then move again with ease.
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Open, on the bed,
a book she’s left unread.
I curl up in her crook
encircled, I am safe
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from Fleabag
one more time.
Another night of grace:
she’s mine.
(c) 2011  April Halprin Wayland, all rights reserved
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The story behind the poem:
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I love Mask Poems.  In a mask poem, I slip inside an inanimate object or animal.  I studied for twelve years under the master children’s poet, Myra Cohn Livingston.  In
her book, POEM-MAKING: Ways to Begin Writing Poetry, Myra writes about this poetic voice :
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“When I teach…I ask students to use the mask…Some…think of themselves as whirlwinds, tornadoes, or…flowers. I will never forget one fifth grade boy who wrote of himself as a lonely root…to tell something about the way he felt.
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Norma Farber has written poems in which she pretends to be a turtle… Harry Behn imagines himself as a river and Carl Sandburg becomes a pumpkin…poets never feel too old to pretend.”
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Now it’s your turn. Myra continues:”…find something inanimate: a chair…a piece of fruit…or a yo-yo.  Think of what you might say…a question you might ask… a secret you have never told… Like Lilian Moore’s caterpillar you may want to begin with a warning.  Or you might ask your reader to look at you before you vanish like Walter de la Mare’s snowflake.”

Eli sleeping. Photo by April Halprin Wayland

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