A Lullaby
It’s raining cats and
dogs.
Not the jamboree I
imagined but a massacre.
Mangled fur, bruised and
bloodied jaws, crooked teeth like fallen logs,
and howls no louder than
a distant murmur.
“Help!” I cry as another
body smacks the ground and
a man with a curled
mustache
trots through the gore
and gives me his hand
popped off at the wrist
like another piece of trash.
I look into his eyes, blurry
as they are, hoping to catch a lie
and ask him,
“Why?”
He smiles, his teeth
like piano keys
shatter like droplets of
honey tea,
then shrugs, a burlap
sack suddenly in hand, setting free
like a rocky avalanche, hundreds
of beans.
And then he leans closer
than comfort would care
and whispers a bee sting
inside my ear,
“Guess the cat’s out of
the bag…”
And with a final glance
at death’s flag
I find myself falling
into a rigid crack.
