When I was young I walked past
a strong gray cat still on the road.
It’s leg lay straight at an unnatural angle and blood matted
a hole where its tail had been.
In the same way everyone is drawn
to the terrible and the hideous and the unknown
I approached.


Her eyes dart to my face.
A thin yellow line surrounding a deep black hole watering with
Something. Cats can’t cry.
“Does it hurt?” She doesn’t answer of course and I feel foolish.
But I try again. “I’m sorry.”
As if both acknowledging and scorning my sympathy her eyes close once and
open again, narrower than before.
But still no sound.
I lean closer to hear something, a breath or maybe a whimper of pain.
And a large heavy paw shoots out,
faster than I can see.
Leaving three bright lines, overflowing with red, the scars of which I have to this day:
The last act of a dying queen—proud, powerful, and imperious to the end.