Trapped

Purring,
she asked
if I were man,
or mouse.
‘Man,’ I said ‘of course.’

She does not know
about the dream;
the one that repeats
at three am
every morning.

The one where I am backed
against the plaster
behind the gap
in the wainscot;
flattening my bones
to still my pounding heart
and quiet my shouting lungs;
the cat so close
I cannot see
her whiskers.

She must never know
about the dream;
she is far too fond
of playing
with her food.