Chimera
Stryge flew when the cathedral lit up
electrical system flashing red at some unknown juncture
five thousand miles later, she landed on my shoulder
All the days since, cancer’s voraciousness.
Two feline littermates taken at 15—one beloved, the other
a difficult genius. Friends stricken, my father killed, my uncle
ailing. I know Stryge is to blame. Anger. Terror.
Who’s next? I don’t want to know. I do want to know.
I try to stem the tide. Not this one. Not that one. Not me.
Please, I beg. Please, please, please. Leave the last cat for us,
let him go some other way. Take a break, go to bed.
Rip Van Winkle finally caught up on this sleep.
Stryge sits on my shoulder, looks out
at my loved ones, my acquaintances--with an attitude of remove.
Her wings folded, her cheeks held up by delicate hands.
I hope to one day stop crying--find peace with the
endless onslaught. Stryge watches all my surroundings, head one head-length
above mine. She is heavy and light like all the other-worldly.
My shoulder droops, then rights itself.
first published in Issue 11 of PLEXUS (2023).
© Ann Tweedy
Ann Tweedy’s first full-length book, The Body’s Alphabet (Headmistress Press), earned a Bisexual Book Award and was a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award. Ann also has published three chapbooks: Beleaguered Oases, White Out, and A Registry of Survival. Her poems have appeared in Rattle, Literary Mama, Naugatuck River Review, and many other places, and she has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes and five Best of the Net Awards. A law professor by day, Ann has devoted her career to serving Native Tribes. She teaches at University of South Dakota Knudson School of Law. Read more at www.anntweedy.com.
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