kitten ears and painted whiskers
tumble down my block   in rows
in leotards and black lace gloves.
precocious     those high pitched
y o w l s floats through open porches.
TV taught them how to meow
for Kit Kats   Snickers Almond Joys
male applause.
one bends over to tie her shoe
and seduce the nearest father;
he eyes the crevice peeking through her
black tights. 

she wants attention from her own father:
a photograph or upward twirl,
burning torch,
purr in his lap while he strokes her hair
without fetish
or just acknowledgment that she is the prettiest
girl dressed up as space cat,
those others are unoriginal, just regular
cats, he says I love yours best
and pats her on her head
and there is no offense taken.

she will grow up  to be even smaller
than  she supposed:
silent    enduring still,
not awake in her own power,
her own body
like a stillborn tiger:
expelled with a tear
coated in the blood of her mother’s
screams as no one prepared her for the
slow cooked torture, ecstasy
that followed expelling something
parasitic and omniscient,
a future rival.
she lands on the floor
in a sealed protective pod,
fetal for always and
wrapped in excretion,
the thing no one wanted
like sewage water
without even a congratulations! bouquet
or a lotus to symbolize completion.

we aren’t worthy of those feline endowments
thrust upon us when we are playing
mole     carcass on the doormat
aborted from our burrowed holes
for something more vociferous
to grab onto and finish,
our kinship,  the lions.
we are nothing like our ancestors.
our virile mothers–
who know nothing of preening,
who care nothing for tail feathers,
they take what they want,
they don’t grovel at their fathers’ feet.
they honor the slaughter,
the one they started
before the harvest and pay homage
to the sky for the water provided
before they stuff themselves
with vision.

we lack vision.
we just paint our nails black,
and dress like witches,
talk shit;
start shit for derision.
and we keep turning to our men
for forgiveness when we are wayward
or won’t marry them
or stand up when they
crush our necks and they
say the rope is coming next.
we should be
stuffing our faces with the meat they provided,
learning fillet knives,
learning to skin hides,
smiling like shovels and
burying them.


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