My fingers stretch
out, seeking warmth
finding only the rough canvas
Prim, cocooned in my mother’s body
my mother, still worn but not so beaten-down.
Prim’s face fresh as a raindrop
Sitting at Prim’s knees, guarding her,
He hates me.
he still remembers
how I tried to drown him in a bucket
last thing I needed
was another mouth to feed
But he’s a born mouser.
when I clean a kill,
I feed Buttercup the entrails.
Entrails. No hissing.
This is the closest we will ever come to love.