Friday, January 13, 2023

Crying Nights

When the kitten was small
And alone in moonlight,

She would wander the hall
Upstairs, crying loudly,

Trying to wake the dead.
What kind of prophecy

Could foretell exactly
How things are now for her,

Half cat, a companion,
Maybe, maybe alive

Maybe already dead?
That would be the genre

To excel in—not myth,
Memoir, science fiction—

Accurate prediction,
Reliable stories,

Plots, characters and all,
In advance, forecasting

Before what’s become
Of those cries down the hall.

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