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From Cunt Couplets to Cat Cutlets

April 15, 2010

The assignment for class yesterday was to write a poem that questioned or highlighted some element of humankind’s relationship with nature. Right away I got to work and created this beautiful piece of art. I think I’ll submit it to Cat Fancy. They sometimes publish short pieces by readers…

Why Not?
with apologies to Sappho
(the cat, not the writer)

They say that there’s more
than one way to skin her.
I bet she’d be
a delicious dinner. Tender
from almost a decade
of daily massages, rendered
juicy and plump
by a life of lap-lounging,
my cat would surely be a fine main course
for a family of four, an excellent
source of necessary protein,
whether ground, pounded flat
into patties and served with fries,
or breaded and baked, lying
on a bed of lemon parmesan
asparagus. (She absolutely loves
to lie on beds.)
The fur—sleek,
thick, seal-slick, sixty thousand
hairs per square inch on her back
and twice that
on her belly—could be set aside
‘til after the dishes were done, and then:
arts and crafts time, everyone! To sew it up
would be a pretty easy project: after all,
already, a cat
is only one letter away
from being a coat or a hat.

This poem is repulsive.
But why is that?
What does it mean
that we all feel it’s wrong
to talk about eating
and possibly wearing
a moist and tenderized,
a velvety, luxuriously soft,
a succulent organic free-range

cat?

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