This cat couldn’t keep her canines
or drool inside her lips.
Big beads of cat spit
dripped from her whiskery muzzle
and hit warm on our skin,
her frail chest shuddering with purrs
of machine gun affection.
She was the one who clawed
half-live mice into the kitchen
and maimed the fledglings my mum had loved all of last spring.
Now she is buried beneath their nest
where squawcks of new born hunger
taunt the bugs from her bones
and terrorise her shoebox
coffin dreams of fleeing
tails, tickles to the chin
and sunlit windowsills in morning.