Some men don’t hate marriage,
or slavery for that matter.
Nor can they ever own enough land.
When I was a girl back on the farm
I surprised a wild tomcat in the hayloft.
He was eating a kitten,
its eyes still shut tight
like apple buds. The shutter clicked
as he looked at me, his expression fixed.
I still think he knew what he was doing,
though not why,
which makes him almost human,
or makes us almost feline.
I could hear the other kittens
mewing softly
somewhere in the hay,
deep in the hidden nest
established by our cat
when she felt them coming.
How many did he take, I wondered,
and how can I punish him?