I have nothing in common with the yellow cat
that bit your wrist. Showing me your town,
you bent to stroke the creature where it sat
and went too far. The wrist still hurts down
deep, where the flesh it seems remembers things.
And those other hurts throb too, the ones we
suffer to be ourselves. And even growing wings
will not blot out our scars or history.
But do not withhold your touch, I beg. Cats of
this world are there to be stroked. Better to ache
than be constrained. Better to live with love
than cowardice. Surely the passions are there to slake.
Besides, no violence hides under my fur.
When you are close, my dear, I only purr.