It should be black, but it is mottled.
Queer clumps of sullied fur. Misfit
with six little legs. The illusion of dragging
stunted stumps. The impression of creeping
from carnival freak show formaldehyde jar.
It mewls. It writhes its tail. I wonder
if this Lusus naturae was displayed
towards meandering fingers, would they embrace
or break its neck. Recoil from
oddball sockets in susurrating face.
It moves my way. It uses all six legs
in a spiderish skitter. Screwy scramble on spindly limbs.
I sense a lilting shift. I wish to preserve this
tatterdemalion oddity. Murmur sweetly into raggedy ears.
Sometimes we hiss from inside
stultifying containers. Sometimes old glass shatters
like hard candy upon rough tongue
and blood is sweet. It whets the glottis.
Sometimes we feel the unsettled onus
of dark fur clotting in throat.
Anomalous appendage until we revise
pule into purl. Devise our own way to sashay.
Behold this six-legged cat-
its roguish shimmy shimmy shimmy,
its charming gambol.
Its monstrously gorgeous miaou.
Custom-designed jewel-vowels flow
into an open bowl. An ornately-beveled candy dish,
gushing with edible curios for weirdoes.
Juliet Cook