Why did I love her? Because I became her, followed her
on all fours. My face grazed the cradled spider in a cotton bed,
its web frayed on my finger: sticky, spun. The others didn't see
me, she sunk on my chest each night. I never learned to swallow,
I chewed and chewed, forbidden to leave the table, grisly meat
in my animal mouth until the kitchen emptied, but she chewed
the sweet blade of grass and I the clover. My arms clasped empty
air and I woke with her, her purr my rasp. She pressed her velvet
belly to my calf. The others didn't let me hold them. They named me.
They filled the plate and bowl, they bought the single pair of shoes.
She and I slipped inside the quiet room. We barely breathed, quick
to jump from breaking glass, tuned to the pinch in a voice, our hunch
of wrongs. The others didn't let me peep, she mewed beneath a grate
until I found her: mutilated, undernourished. No sibling, no mother. Her
paws were dry magic beads. I touched them. All the love I was not allowed
to give in the human house, she let me. She let me touch them one by one.
Feral by Jessica Cuello | Garden Lavender Poetry Reed Diffuser
$15.00Price
