Her thick fur: the underbelly of clouds that drop
the first warm rain of April. She is soft

as the timid hand that once brushed yours
in a darkened theater, endless summer hours

too aimless, unstudied in lust
to respond with an arched back or a hiss, just

a child. Move closer, and her tail twitches
slightly like the nose of a good witch—

she is fourteen with a bad hip,
lopsided. One fang protrudes, kisses her thin lip,

sharp as the accusations of your latest ex,
displayed like a bridal diamond on a velvet deck,

white as a flag of surrender, though you know
better. Look away, and one eye opens: yellow

as the light of a subway shooting out of the black
toward a woman pushed onto the tracks.

 

by Kasandra Larsen

 

Kasandra Larsen’s work has appeared widely in journals, including Best New Poets. Her manuscript CONSTRUCTION was a finalist for the 2016 Four Way Books Intro Prize in Poetry, and, under a different title, a semifinalist for the 2017 Crab Orchard Series in Poetry First Book Award; her chapbook STELLAR TELEGRAM won the 2009 Sheltering Pines Press Chapbook Award. She is a three-time Pushcart nominee. Read more at her website.

 

Appears In

Cagibi Issue 4

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