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Cats
I read a book when I was in elementary school
in our library, a book of omens and superstitions
filled with the tabloids of witches, the ‘zines
of zombies, as if the librarian wanted to haunt
every child who should stumble upon its stupid
dance. I read that cats, when you sleep, jump
on your throat and wait—all night if they have to—
for your mouth to open and then they rise
to their imperfect height and suck out all of the life
from your breath, their ghost-whiskers brushing
deep into your throat, and when you wake
you feel weak, but not knowing that a part
of you is gone, forever, eaten by the thing
at your feet. From then on, I realized that cats
have ninety lives, nine hundred lives, bellies
jam-packed with the souls of priests and moms,
children and plumbers. I met a dominatrix
once. She owned several cats, her house
seeming to have one in every room, all of them,
I’m assuming, hungry as hell . . .
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