She is thirteen. Her cat, Sneakers,
has just had another litter of kittens
to be chloroformed by her father
in the large cooking pot. "Keep whichever
you want," he says, "mother or kitten,
just one." She is sitting on her bed
petting the male kitten with thick
tan fur. She sits close to her Silvertone
radio, moves her mouth to the music.
A rifle cracks in the back yard,
then a scuffle like a rat
under the house. Sneakers has gotten
away, not quite dead, is crouched
in a far corner wailing a low
steady wail. She watches the square
knob on her dresser, lit with sun,
the back hairs of her kitten ablaze
in the sunlight like little spines.
Under her is the live crawlspace.
She holds the little paws of her kitten,
pushes her thumbs gently into the center
of the pads with almost divine
tenderness, watches the claws extend
involuntarily, translucent little hooks.
She has a vision of pushing until they fly
outward like darts, or rays of sun,
leaving the kitten with buff-
colored buttons of feet. She names it
Buffy, imagines buffing the DeSoto
with the kitten, rubbing him flat
as her grandmother's fox stole,
popping in the little marbles for eyes
that would catch the light,
hard. Her father is calling kitty, here
kitty, his flashlight in the cat's
eyes. It is Jungle-Cat, leaping out
of a 3-D screen among arrows, flying
at the audience. She stretches out on
the bed and brushes her face across
her smooth animal. A dark creature passes
through the black chambers of her thought
like a shadow, enters a kingdom
of shadows, stirring and stirring.
has just had another litter of kittens
to be chloroformed by her father
in the large cooking pot. "Keep whichever
you want," he says, "mother or kitten,
just one." She is sitting on her bed
petting the male kitten with thick
tan fur. She sits close to her Silvertone
radio, moves her mouth to the music.
A rifle cracks in the back yard,
then a scuffle like a rat
under the house. Sneakers has gotten
away, not quite dead, is crouched
in a far corner wailing a low
steady wail. She watches the square
knob on her dresser, lit with sun,
the back hairs of her kitten ablaze
in the sunlight like little spines.
Under her is the live crawlspace.
She holds the little paws of her kitten,
pushes her thumbs gently into the center
of the pads with almost divine
tenderness, watches the claws extend
involuntarily, translucent little hooks.
She has a vision of pushing until they fly
outward like darts, or rays of sun,
leaving the kitten with buff-
colored buttons of feet. She names it
Buffy, imagines buffing the DeSoto
with the kitten, rubbing him flat
as her grandmother's fox stole,
popping in the little marbles for eyes
that would catch the light,
hard. Her father is calling kitty, here
kitty, his flashlight in the cat's
eyes. It is Jungle-Cat, leaping out
of a 3-D screen among arrows, flying
at the audience. She stretches out on
the bed and brushes her face across
her smooth animal. A dark creature passes
through the black chambers of her thought
like a shadow, enters a kingdom
of shadows, stirring and stirring.
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