Scott Russell Morris
In the dream I was made
to sacrifice my cat
if I wanted answers from
With a machete, I carefully, precisely
sliced her into bloodless medallions
from tail to head, the knife
so sharp her blue eyes
and whiskered nose slid off
like a mask.
As soon as I removed her face
I regretted the whole exercise.
I was going to miss her.
No longer able to recall
what question such augury answered,
I knew it wasn’t worth the price.
I woke myself to exorcise the guilt.
The cat slept in the darkness
pressed against my belly.
I reached for her warmth, static
lightning danced across the expanse
of her white fur; I apologized.
Unable to sleep, I opened my phone
where the icons of the weather app
foretold cool conditions with sun
and sun and sun, perhaps
some wind in dry skies,
nights that were not quite freezing,
but nothing else.