Battle-Zone Skin-Scape

Reporters are out in force in Iraq and the Congo

and in other war-zone areas around the world,

yet there is no one reporting the battle at our place

in the evenings when I’m reclining in my leather chair.

Our three four-legged children, furry creatures,

think that my skin-scape, a voluptuous mould of rippling flesh,

is their territory on which each has its place.

Cha Cha, the dog of no-particular breed,

sits sprawled in the lowlands,

Mozart, the sixteen-year-old cat, the boss of them all,

sits guarding on my chest.

Bodecia, the seven-year-old kitten, sits on my knees.

The land form is unstable and has never been delineated,

that when I move, and the skin-scape alters,

the animals fight for territory.

Then, I’m hissed and clawed at

and flying hair assails my nose,

Bluish eyes light up, dispersing shadows over

my form as feline’s blood mingles with canines;

but reporters never come to the battle.

One other thing, no one ever asked me whether I mind my

skin-scape being made into a battle zone.

Is this how wars start?

© Judy Brumby-Lake 2006