When I was six, I heard a news story about a woman who moved in with a tiger,
She packed up her silverware, her clothes, her pens and paper,
Brought it to the cave,
Where she and the tangerine beast,
Lived like husband and wife.
I read Blake's "Tyger, Tyger" at nine,
Figured these cats had been to the Hell we were warned about by Sister Gertrude,
They were back from the fire with prison bars branded into their skins and orange leaping like the Popsicle-stained tongues of small children.
I wanted to inherit a beast,
Hatch claws and fangs,
And other killing things,
Maim the girls I hated,
Eat the boys I liked, easy,
With their tongues I would build a tail to keep me upright,
A whip to carve my misery,
Unto to all those who dared to come close to my cell,
Disturbing the shadow,
Of the girl in the blue Catholic jumper,
The girl always blowing her nose,
Always going to the nurse’s office,
To stare at the wood cross on the white wall,
To fall in love with Jesus, to dream of his hands, his mouth,
Dreaming that I was away, of God, of jungles,
The little beast in patent leather shoes,
That could attract a grown man’s lust,
I’m in a veil, I’m in holding,
I’m sunlight switchblade beams,
My tail is flashing,
There’s too much orange,
Too much fire and my head goes bare.
I’m in Hell now,
Hear me purr.