Easter Sonnet
Brad Davis (bio)

The cat is not here.
She has risen

from the cushion
of her favorite chair

where fur lies in clumps
like grave clothes,

the cushion now a reliquary
I cannot revere

and also hope to please
a persnickety spouse.

I know I know,
this ought not be

even a minor crisis.
But the cat is not here.

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