by Brett Rutherford
Ailurophobe,
Stepfather dreads
the thought of cats.
“Not safe around infants,”
he swears to God.
“They take a baby’s breath away
and smother it,
and as for you, one scratch
and you’re dead; blood
poisoning cannot be cured.”
“When I am grown and gone,”
I tell him, “My house shall have
black cats in every room.
Thirteen at least will sun
themselves on all the window-sills.
“Each chair will throne a tom-cat.
No bed will be denied them.
Each visiting child may choose
from among a hundred kittens.” —
“Don’t expect us to visit,” he warned.
I smiled. “Oh, rest assured,
you will never cross that threshold.”
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