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