How shall I describe her?

She is feral

one day her ego fills the room like helium

all the plates and cups and saucers wobble

for the enlargement of her radiance

and the next

you will see barely

the skeleton of her tail

slow wagging behind oven

when she goes out, she leaves behind two cut out dolls

wearing their paper clothes, she walks stiffly ahead

not looking back

where they war with each other

one is sad, one is trying to get better

at night when she cannot sleep

june bugs die against her glass

fireflies remind her magic is not

solely the terrain of the insane

when she has nothing on but the scars of her walk

and waist deep in meadow grass

she finds fragments of who she once was

perching for dew on the tip of a thought

she is like the cactus flower

blooming wide and with the accordian of a flaring skirt

only to whither and dry, come first day of summer

once, when a man stroked her fur

she thought she could purr

but his bite left a mark with a scar

that did not heal over

instead she roared

against the shells in her ears

for the salvage of the sea

and a hundred thousand waves

to bury her need

for love or the reminder of

staining like a coffee cup

will leave its inked imprint upon

our best intention