Cat’s Cradle

by Amit Majmudar

My hands hold
the pattern that
holds them fast. Your

hands pluck the string
to make the music
that frees me up

at last. We lift away
we trade

like tongues. The cat
in my crèche
is your name

on my breath. To love
is to be bound
like this and freed

like this. The pattern
that weaves my
hands together

blinks and opens
in your hands,
a new dreamcatcher

with you the dream
inside it. Isn’t it beautiful
to need like this?

Pattern crisscrosses
pattern, hands
swooping in

to rescue hands.
They never touch
in their mercurial

aerial dance. One loop
of string
strings fate

along with elusively
feline ingenuity,
you and me

in pattern
after pattern

while our Cheshire love
with its nine lives
and sleepy topaz eyes

lies in its
shapeshifting cradle