the day my aunt told me a story about her 7 lb. cat who dragged a 12 lb. turkey to the other room and growled until she ate it clean

I was petting a cat who had once bitten me

with the hand that still bore—

a mark so faint a lover wouldn’t see it—

only me, who remembers the impact.

I was petting that now-purring cat

with that same hand when you answered

the phone. Hurt fades as we encounter

kindness. The feral cat who once bit—

a huge monster then—

now rests on my lap months later.

Enough treats, enough food, enough kind words

can soften even claws.

It’s the same thing that got me

to call you—

and you to answer,

“Happy Julie’s birthday.”

Your dead sister. My dead mom.

I had forgotten.

It’s that same thing

which lets us talk about anything but my mother—

about all the cats you’ve tamed,

the ones I’ve just started.

We agree:

no matter the time,

no matter how sweet,

inside, always—

a bit of the feral remains.

Maybe, inside me, that wild speck,

that lone cell—probably a neuron,

maybe muscle—

just days ago

saw you as looming black winds,

ready to sweep me into darkness.

Feeble like a child—

a child whose whole world,

every emotion,

was implanted by your jealous sister,

my dead mother.

How I was fearful of the worst.

What exactly, I couldn’t say.

Yet today, you seem the mother

I wish I had.

The woman I wish to become.

My mother was right

to be your jealous sister.

But now I know—

she was my jealous mother as well.

We—two feral cats

she could never fully tame.