caterwauler―a meat-sack
with another meat-sack for a pet, I
tended hunger―his and mine, the baby moles
he bat to death, the low-slung
hunt near the sink
for chicken grease―my
teacher-beast―he liked it
raw or cooked or canned or kibbled, he’d
clip a claw to my lower lip
if I was asleep―so that I’d
pad to the kitchen and slop his bowl
with seafood medley or chicken-beef,  I’d
grab him up―squeeze so tight I thought I’d
pop, croon
silly silly silly silly and watch his eyes
close down to slits, I
tended hunger―it was on my mind a lot
as I watched the climate curl and bang, were you
watching too? Wondering if you’d
hesitate to eat your cat
in the new extreme
of flood and flame, I had a brute
about the future’s body―all around me
summer burst its sack of seeds
in trumpet horns of purple blue I loved
so much I cut them once
to bring inside―where they
promptly died―and thus
I knew―no matter how much
I loved the world, to hunger
was to be
a destroyer―