There once was a glassblower who lived by the sea. In the daring years of his youth, the glassblower would pull all kinds of strange and wonderful shapes from out of colored glass. He blew neon spires ... [+]
A.J. is a writer and English teacher from Chicago. He specialized in the study of speculative fiction while pursuing his M.A., and now he writes both SFF criticism as well as his own short fiction ... [+]
Your Russian Blue is not crazy when she
somersaults off the armchair to run, run
run down the end of the room, up a wall,
and backflips back—
thump—down on delicate paws
Your Russian Blue is not crazy when her
sonar scope ears and fine twitching whiskers
catch and pull her head round spinning
the shining silt-green cat's eye peering
out into only space and air
Your Russian Blue is not crazy when she
sees the dust dance on the light, curtains ruffling
even though there's not a breeze, or
when she hears them whisper under the
refrigerator humming
Fair folk, fae at the corners of things
decked in silver moonbeams, golden sunrays
holding masquerade beneath the vent, behind the couch
where the edges meet, dancing to the squeaking
of fiddle and fife and tiny, tiny bells
The fae fly fast, but some day she will catch one
your exquisite murderer
one fat and cheerful, gone drunk on gooseberry wine
swerving through the air
swipe the tiny Dionysus down, crunch the precious dewdrop skull
and leave the pretty body
decked in silver moonbeams, golden sunrays,
and crimson...
...on your doormat
You will find her resting in a sun spot
(unless she's under the hamper again)
Or you can fire up the can opener
and watch as she comes sidling by
tail as tall as a tower, gossamer wing
still hanging limply from her lip
Your Russian Blue is not crazy when she
bumps her head into your knee; you must return her affection
run your hands down the silky gray spine
push back her bloody knives-for-fingers
and kiss the delicate paws
For Katya