I stand on my back legs to the Altar of Papyrus, lift my chin to its sweet succulance that relieves me of hairballs with its spritzing essence on the singing ridge of my palate. I clack my teeth on its holy greens.

It sways and springs ever growing new shoots, tender and amber of Cattess Mror’s own eyes, each leaf the perfect iris by day, the cross section of its tube like her own foot pad, stem graceful and held up as pure alert happiness.