Thalia and Melpomene |
by Sean McPherson

The first is sleek, strong,
Bagheera black. She’s
well-fed and proud,
with round, green eyes.

She acts entitled;
she assumes
she’ll be given
what she needs,
and so she is.

Once, when I was hanging
my clothes out to dry, my
cat snuck out and met her.
A brawl quickly ensued
and I had to break it up.

The other, when resting,
flattens herself out on
the cool cement in the shade
to conserve her energy
as derelicts do.


In the sunlight her coat
reveals a calico cheapness.
Her eyes are dead and yellow.
Her tongue, pink, sticks out
between her fangs,
the reminder of a past
skirmish. She is gaunt.

Once, about a month ago,
I gave her a mouse
my cat had caught inside
and killed.

She looked up at me,
confused for a moment,
then she took it and
raced away to devour the thing.

Sean McPherson was born in Anchorage, AK in 1987 and currently resides in Olympia, WA. He works as a an adjunct professor of Spanish at South Puget Sound Community College. This spring he received his MA in Spanish and Portuguese from Tulane University. Some of his poetry has recently appeared in The Bacon Review.