in the day we cut unknown berries from the yard and fed them to the cat.
if he lives tomorrow, we will stuff them in the duck and feast
if he dies, we will gut them into wine for the night that there are no stars.
in the night we made cigarettes from torn pages of your grandmother's bible
and burnt the legs of the chairs for warmth.
when the cat lives, we will dine on the floor and dance to the sound of the creaking house.
i've no wine for now, and i am thirsty.
the noises you make when you are asleep are hideous and make me weep.
i am fearful not for the dead. but for the living.
your cat is gone.
you are morning's child surely
and as surely, you will die the night.
when eastern winds come westward bound
they will count our bones in what delight!