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