The boys insist my yard is theirs.
Wall to wall, I listen. Like two cats
they come, screaming and yowling
through my window and
under my piece of thin care
that one of them will die.
Broad blue birds beat, beat, beat their metal
wings. They batter the stealth brown
prowlers who pee and paint graffiti,
hushing their nicknames into dead stone.
Midnight beaks sweep the avenidas
with brooms of light. They jab and stab
and pierce these sons. Through cool young fur
the cats' tattoos inked fresh with red
mark their turf with tongues of blood.
Tortillas and mole still stick to their whiskers
barely grown, their lips heave their last thoughts
from the underbellies of home. The last cats
creep the streets and make kittens
to battle those black and white fowls
-- Lisa Marie Sandoval
Copyright © 1999-2007 Lisa Marie Sandoval. All rights reserved