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The Witch's Cat
Fat on the belly
Back to your face
Purring a curse
Precisely in your direction
Sounds she makes and does not understand
She must despise you
Does she fight a genetic desire to slice your throat?
The kindest gift that she can give you.
We have not felt time
As time ran her fingers upon us
Pulled tight the stray threads of open corsets
Combed our hair.
We are tidier now
Our seamstress; Time
Stroked the bumps from our surface
A silky ribbon scar
Across the back
Is no memorial to a once sudden strike
The natural tale it tells in truth
Not of a shock to the flesh, but the recovery sewn slow and long
The constant unending embroidering song
Of a fine seamstress.
Watching like a child
Through the nettles that sting
Almost like she holds his hand
Collecting dock leaves