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sadness

She looked down at the little kittens
in the box. Her neighbor was trying
to give them away. Why did she have to
knock at the door now? Why did she
have to come along now? Her husband
might get upset if she talks to her
neighbor too long. Something might
give him away. Her neighbor keeps
pushing the box under her nose,
to try to make her look at them.
“If you look at them just once,”
her neighbor was saying,
“you won’t be able to resist them.”
She finally opened her red eyes and
looked down at the box. There were
four grey kittens and one white one.
She looked to the white kitten.
It wasn’t just white, but it was stark
white, as if it had never been touched
by the outer world. Suddenly she
imagined that the kitten grew, and
jumped out of the box, into the air,
landing on her face and tearing
at her flesh. She imagined the bright
white fur turning a dirty deep red
as the silence was broken by her screams.

She closed her eyes, then opened them.
The red in her eyes contrasted
with the paleness of her skin.
A bead of sweat ran down her face.
“No, thank you. I can’t
have them around. I’m sorry.”


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Chicago Poet Janet Kuypers
on all art and all writings on this site completed
before 6/6/04. All rights reserved. No material
may be reprinted without express permission.