I sit in the dark
and remember my sister,
while the neighbor's cat hisses and scuffles
with some creature outside the window behind me,
probably another cornered possum.
My sister
told me of the finger-jabbing bruises
on her chest.
She needed me,
but I moved away
and only returned to arrange her burial.
I also arranged the burial
for the cat's previous victim:
a slain possum under a hedge,
open eyes clouded dry,
bits of hair-matted skin
torn bone-bare from the body
with the fervor of Jack the Ripper.
So now,
I sit in the dark and listen
to this latest murder outside my window.
Branches like desperate claws
scrape the glass
and punctuate guttural groans.
I could stop it and save a life,
but I feel pressed
into the chair
by a finger
against my chest.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.