PoetryMolly Smithson


PoetryMolly Smithson

The claws come out
Of the bars,
My Lust. 
Oh yes, they first peek, curious.

So you reach out,
Even though this alley is dark
Broken glass like mosaic tile. 
No, it is not safe

Because then, the scratch, 
Maybe it's play?
Then she digs in,
god damn feral queen.

She's never been easy to tame,
Hispanic boys in the schoolyard,
Teenager suburbanites yelling
From their car windows. 

It definitely wasn't the stray toms
She met in the park,
Because of them she darts glances, 
A slick, rapid gleam in her eyes. 

But maybe, Oh maybe,
Sweet, drunken docker,
Maybe you will glance back,
Just a pet, hen keep walking.

Maybe, she'll follow you home,
Purr deep from her ribs, 
Stretch, rub, press
Her tail against your legs.